The Light Is In The Letting Go

The sun has dipped below the line, and the house is finally quiet, but your thumb is still working. It hovers over a name that feels like an open wound, scrolling past the timestamp to see if they are alive, if they are moving, if they are ignoring you.

The silence from their side is loud enough to drown out the evening, and your finger trembles over the block button, wanting to stop the bleeding but terrified that clicking it makes the silence permanent. You are waiting for a sign that never comes, checking a grave that isn't even closed yet.

But listen — the light does not live in a timestamp. It does not reside in the 'last seen' status of someone who cannot see you right now.

There is a presence in this room with you that is not ignoring you, not waiting to reply, not making you beg for attention. It is simply here, breathing with you in the exhale of the day.

You do not need to force a door open that someone else has shut. The light is not on the other side of that screen.

It is in the hand that wants to let go. Put the phone down.

The person you are looking for is not in the data. They are in the quiet.