The Weight of Unread Words

The phone hums softly in the corner,
a quiet shrine to voices that never reached me.
Each message waits,
nestled in glowing rectangles,
their silence pressing against the screen
like clouds swollen with unspent rain.

I imagine them breathing,
the words curling into shapes—
pleas, confessions, apologies
I never unfolded.
Some shimmer with hope,
some crumble with sorrow,
and all of them grow heavier
as the days stretch and bend
beneath the weight of my hesitation.

At night, I hear their whispers
leak through the casing:
“I was here,”
“I missed you,”
“I forgive you, even if you cannot forgive yourself.”
I touch the glass and feel their pulse,
a heartbeat of ink and intention
throbbing through circuits and memory.

I wonder if reading them
would set them free,
or if I am meant to carry them,
these tiny, impossible suns,
burning quietly
inside my palm.

And so they wait,
and so I wait,
together in suspended longing,
two shadows circling
the space between what was said
and what remained unread.

- Khushi Kaul