The Light Sees What You Delete

The cursor blinks in the white box, a rhythmic pulse while the house moves on without you. You type the truth that has been choking you since dawn, the plea you are terrified to send, and then you stop.

You read it over. You delete it.

Letter by letter, backspace by backspace, until the screen is blank again and the mask is back in place. It feels like cowardice to swallow the words.

It feels like safety. But the light does not need your polished performance to find you.

It was already in the room before you typed the first word. It saw the confession before it appeared.

It sees the deletion just as clearly. You think you are hiding by clearing the screen, but nothing is concealed that will not be disclosed.

The truth you erased is still known. The fear you deleted is still held.

You do not have to hit send for the light to receive you.