Sleepless nights
stretch out like highways—
quiet, endless,
full of thoughts I wish
would leave me alone.
I lie awake
counting the things I can’t fix,
listening to the clock
drag its feet,
feeling the weight of every memory
that refuses to fade.
And somewhere between midnight
and whatever comes after,
I start to wonder
if sleep is avoiding me—
or if I’m avoiding myself.
The room is quiet
in the way empty places breathe—
soft, patient,
like they already know
no one is coming.
Your name glows
on the dark screen in my hands,
a small white light
that promises nothing.
I tell myself
silence doesn’t mean absence.
That people have lives
beyond the reach of my fears.
But loneliness
is a skilled storyteller.
It takes a single unanswered message
and builds a whole ending from it—
a story where I was too much,
or not enough,
or simply forgettable.
The minutes stretch thin.
The night settles deeper.
Across the room
an empty chair waits
like someone once meant to sit there.
And I wonder
how something so small—
a pause,
a delay,
a quiet space between words—
can echo so loudly
in a heart
that’s still learning
how to believe
someone might stay.
Through the Fog 