The Light That Never Disconnects

The screen is bright, but your face feels cold. You are staring at those three dancing dots, waiting for a sign that someone is there, that someone is typing, that you are not alone in this room. But the dots vanish. The silence returns. And you put the mask back on—the one that says you are fine, that you are busy, that you do not need anyone to answer.

It is exhausting to perform okayness while your heart is screaming into the void. You walk through the morning carrying a phone that feels like a stone in your pocket, heavy with the words that were never sent.

But listen. The light does not type in bubbles. It does not disappear when the connection is lost. It is already here, pressing against the glass of your isolation, waiting for you to look up from the device and see the presence that never left.

You are not defined by who replies to you. You are defined by the light that lives inside you, which needs no signal to be real.