The Light Reads What You Delete

The cursor blinks in the white box, waiting for a truth you are too afraid to speak. You type out the weight of the breaking, the raw ache of being unmoored, and then you stop.

One by one, you press backspace, deleting the confession until the screen is blank again. You tell yourself you are saving them from the burden of your noise.

But the light does not see your silence as protection. It sees it as a mask you are wearing while the world moves around you.

There is a friend who walked with strangers on a road when their hope was dead, and he did not demand they be happy before he stayed. He simply walked.

He did not need your performance. He needed your presence.

The love that holds the universe does not flinch when you tremble. It is not overwhelmed by the words you deleted.

It was already reading them before you typed the first letter. You are not a burden to the light.

You are the very reason it entered the room.