The Light Holds Your Unsent Words

The screen glows in the dimming room, holding words you typed and then deleted because you know they will never be read. You are carrying a goodbye that has nowhere to go, a weight that feels heavier now that the day has stopped moving.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. You do not have to send the message for the light to know what is in your heart.

The silence between you and them is not empty; it is filled with a presence that hears every unsent word. The love you are trying to express did not vanish when you hit backspace.

It remains, held safely in the hands that formed you.