staring at the phone screen with the draft message open, thumb hovering over send, terrified that hitting it will make the pain real and irreversible

The screen glows in the dark, a small rectangle holding the weight of everything you are afraid to say. Your thumb hovers over the word 'send,' paralyzed by the fear that pressing it will make the pain real, irreversible.

But the light does not wait for your perfection to act. It knows the tremor in your hand.

It knows the draft you cannot finish. There is a bruised reed inside you that the light will not break, and a smoldering wick it will not snuff out.

You do not have to send the message tonight to be held. The light is already present in the silence between your thumb and the glass.

It is in the unsent words. It is in the fear.

Split the wood of this moment, and the light is there too. You are not alone in the hovering.

The One who knows your name is sitting with you in the glow, waiting not for the send, but for you to breathe.