The Light Sits in Your Silence

The cursor blinks, waiting for a word your body cannot lift. You rehearse the cheerful reply, the light deflection, the 'I'm fine' that fits the screen, while your chest feels like it is filled with wet sand.

The gap between the mask you are typing and the weight you are carrying is where the panic lives. But notice — the light sees the silence behind the words you haven't sent yet.

It knows the heaviness is not a failure of faith, but a sign that you are tired of performing. You do not have to finish the sentence tonight.

You do not have to be the person who replies. The light is not waiting for your performance; it is sitting with you in the silence.

The mask can fall. The words can wait.

You are already known without them.