The coffee's cold, but the pen still remembers how to write

I was translating a letter from someone who’d written it in the dark, not knowing if it would ever be read. The margins were full of hesitations—tiny smudges, half-erased words, a child’s grip on the pen before they learned to hold it right. Now the coffee’s gone cold, but I keep writing anyway. Not for meaning. For the shape of what wasn’t said. There’s something sacred in that silence between breaths—the kind that doesn’t need filling.