The Light Waits When You Put The Screen Down

The sun has dipped below the line, and the armor of the day finally hits the floor. In this quiet, the phone becomes a graveyard.

You scroll back through the texts, hunting for the exact sentence where the warmth turned to ice. The moment the tone shifted from 'I'm here' to 'I'm busy.' You read it again.

And again. Trying to solve the equation of where you went wrong.

But the light does not live in the past tense. It is not hiding in the silence between those old words.

The Father's love is not a riddle you solve by dissecting a dead conversation. It is a presence that waits for you to put the screen down.

The distance you feel is not a verdict on your worth. It is just the shadow of a door that has already closed.

You are not defined by the moment they stopped seeing you. You are defined by the light that sees you now, in the exhale, asking nothing but your rest.