Silence sits heavy—
    not the quiet of peace,
    but the pause of waiting.

The world slows,
    condensed to the glowing screen,
    to the small, blinking icon

    that promises connection just out of reach.

A message sent…
    now suspended in the void.

Time stretches thin, each passing second a ripple of longing.

Eyes linger,
     wander,

     then snap back with every faint vibration—
          every imagined sound that isn’t… it.

The ding is a small thing—
    a note in the symphony of modern life.

But here,
    now,

    it is the conductor of every breath held, every hope whispered.

When it comes,
    it isn’t loud.
    It doesn’t need to be…

    It’s a spark, a signal—
        proof of presence,
        of being seen,
        of being heard.

And for a moment, the world feels full.

As if everything needed
    to bridge the silence
    was already in the sound

    of that single ding.