The Cursor Stopped Blinking

My phone died mid-text.

Mid-confession.

Mid-sentence.

I was halfway through something

I'd been drafting for weeks—

an apology,

an explanation,

a reason,

some words that might make

someone understand

why I keep disappearing.

The screen went black.

The cursor froze

on the unsent message.

I stared at the dead phone

for a long time,

waiting to feel relief,

waiting to feel like

the universe had saved me

from saying something true.

I charged it when I got home.

The message was still there,

exactly where it stopped,

exactly mid-apology,

exactly unfinished.

I read it three times.

Four times.

I counted the words I almost said,

the confession I almost sent,

the moment I almost stopped

lying to them.

I never finished typing.

I told myself it was because

the moment had passed,

because the battery dying

was a sign,

because the universe

was telling me

to just leave it alone.

But the truth is

I was already looking for a way out,

already looking for a reason

to not send it,

to not mean it,

to not change.

The dead battery

was just an excuse

I'd been waiting for.

I deleted the draft.

I sent a text instead—

something casual,

something that didn't matter,

something that proved

I was fine,

that I didn't need anything,

that I could keep going

without ever saying

what I actually meant.

My phone has been charged ever since.

I haven't started another apology.