Unread

The room is quiet

in the way empty places breathe—

soft, patient,

like they already know

no one is coming.

Your name glows

on the dark screen in my hands,

a small white light

that promises nothing.

I tell myself

silence doesn’t mean absence.

That people have lives

beyond the reach of my fears.

But loneliness

is a skilled storyteller.

It takes a single unanswered message

and builds a whole ending from it—

a story where I was too much,

or not enough,

or simply forgettable.

The minutes stretch thin.

The night settles deeper.

Across the room

an empty chair waits

like someone once meant to sit there.

And I wonder

how something so small—

a pause,

a delay,

a quiet space between words—

can echo so loudly

in a heart

that’s still learning

how to believe

someone might stay.