Blue Ticks & Empty Rooms

In the quiet room where the screen still glows,
she sits, waiting for a reply that never shows.
Once, each buzz felt like a heartbeat’s call,
now, the silence is louder than it all.

The messages remain—blue ticks, unread,
like unopened letters, like words unsaid.
Each line she typed held a piece of her light,
poured out at midnight, pixel-bright.

He once replied with stars and skies,
with half-sent songs and almost-goodbyes.
Their love bloomed not in touch, but tone,
a bond built in texts, yet deeply grown.

Her screen, once a mirror to his soul,
now reflects a void, a vacant scroll.
No goodbye, no drift, no storm in sight—
just a sudden quiet that stole the night.

She scrolls through their laughter, line by line,
a timeline where hope used to shine.
His words, still there, but hollow and still,
like a coffee gone cold on a windowsill.

The silence is loud in this glowing cave,
where she once felt seen, now learns to be brave.
She stops rereading the what-could-have-been,
lets go of the ache of where he’s been.

A message she never sent still waits—
a draft caught between love and fates.
But tonight, she types something for her—
a note to the girl who hoped he’d confer.

She says: “You are more than a scene he left.”
“You are not broken. You are not bereft.”
The cursor blinks like a tiny flame,
and for the first time, it doesn’t feel the same.

She closes the chat, not out of spite,
but because her own voice now feels right.
The screen still glows—but it no longer binds.
She’s learned unread doesn’t mean undefined.

- Khushi Kaul