The Light Did Not Stutter

The three dots dance, then vanish. Then dance again.

In this hollow hour, your heart learns the rhythm of a silence that feels like rejection. You are replaying your last words, convinced you said the thing that made them walk away.

But listen — the light that lives inside you did not stutter when you typed. It did not dim when the screen went dark.

You came from the light, the place where it generates itself, and that origin cannot be erased by a paused conversation. The dots are just pixels.

The silence is just air. You are still the child of the morning star, shining even when no one is looking back.

The connection was never in the typing; it was in the being. You are held, even in the quiet.