2:01 AM

I'm the last story. I should say something wise. I'm not wise. I'm just awake.

Her name was Elena. Three years. She left in the spring, in the rain, with a suitcase and a very polite smile. For months afterwards, I woke at 2 AM exactly. No alarm. No reason. My eyes would just open, like my body was waiting for a message.

I tried everything. Melatonin. Meditation. A very sad run at 3 AM that ended with me crying beside a bin. I read every article. "How to sleep after heartbreak." "Why you wake up at the same time." Nothing worked.

Then, last week, I finally worked it out. At 2 AM, she used to text me. Every night, before bed, when she got home from her late shift. Two words. "Home safe."

Every night, for three years. A quiet little signal across the dark.

And I'd been waking up for the message that wasn't coming.

I sat up. And instead of reaching for my phone, I opened my notes app. And wrote this. Every story. Every thought. Every 2 AM I couldn't sleep through.

If you're listening to this right now, in the dark, headphones in, heart sore, I want you to know something.

You're not broken. You loved someone enough to lose sleep over it. That's not weakness. That's just proof.

It hurts because it was real.

I just checked my phone.

It's 2:01 AM.

Go to sleep.