The Light Remains After The Delete

The joke sits in the draft, a tiny spark of the person you were when they were here. You type the last word, smile for a second that doesn't reach your eyes, and then you start to delete.

Backspace, backspace, backspace—erasing the laughter character by character until the screen is blank again. The house is quiet, and the darkness feels like it is gathering just outside the window, waiting for you to admit you are alone.

But the light does not require an audience to be real. It was there before the joke, and it remains after the deletion.

You are not defined by the silence or the empty phone. The light within you is greater than the one who is in the world, and it sees you even when no one else is left to laugh.

The struggle is not that you are alone; it is that you have forgotten the light is enough company for tonight.