The Light Waits in the Unsent Draft

The house is quiet now, and the only sound is the tap of your fingers on the glass. You type out the words you hope will make them understand, the long explanation that says, 'I am okay,' or 'I am not,' or 'Please don't leave.' Then you stop.

You hit delete. Letter by letter, the screen goes blank until the cursor blinks alone in the dark again.

You do this because the truth feels too heavy to send, or maybe too dangerous to keep. But listen — the light does not need your message to find you.

It was already there, in the silence before you started typing, and it remains in the emptiness after you erased it all. You are not defined by the words you send or the ones you swallow.

There is a knowing that lives inside you, deeper than any text you could compose, and it knows you are held even when the screen is black. You do not have to explain your way into being loved.

The light sees you perfectly in the unsent draft.