Held Even After The Mistake

The phone didn't move, but your body jumped—a ghost vibration shaking the silence of the room. Then the cold sweat hits, the sudden realizing that the words are already gone, sent into a dark you cannot reach into and pull back.

You are lying here rehearsing the apology, the explanation, the undoing that isn't possible. In Gethsemane, the light itself fell on its face in the dirt and begged for the cup to pass, for the words to be taken back before they happened—but the cup remained.

The light knows this specific terror of the irreversible. It does not scold you for the mistake.

It sits with you in the aftermath, where the only thing left to do is breathe. The message cannot be un-sent, but the connection was never broken by your error.

You are still held, even now, even with the words out there.