It says delivered
and stays there.
Nothing moves after that.
The light fades on its own.
Time passes without a sound.
I don’t check the clock.
I don’t wait on purpose.
I just notice how still it feels.
The screen goes dim, then bright again—
like it’s breathing without me.
The message stays where it landed:
not opened, not gone.
I don’t add another line.
I don’t take it back.
I let the space do what it does:
hold.
The room keeps going
like nothing changed.
The night doesn’t respond either.
Some things remain untouched—
not because they’re forgotten,
but because they’re unread.
Unread.
