I typed it into the search bar at 3 AM

I typed it into the search bar at 3 AM,

the question I'd been carrying for weeks,

the thing I'd never say out loud,

the shame that keeps me awake.

My phone screen glowed and showed me back

my own face reflected, faintly,

watching myself about to crack,

watching myself become the enemy.

The cursor blinked. I pressed the key.

Results loaded. I didn't read them through.

The search itself was enough for me—

the admission that it's real, that it's true.

I closed the browser, left the history

to prove I was here, that I searched,

that I'm the kind of person with this mystery,

this need I can't speak, can't be perched

on any word that anyone would understand.

The phone glowed warm beside my head.

I fell asleep with it close at hand,

with the question still unread.