Sometimes, Late at Night

Their laughter still hangs in the air like a fragile thread of incense smoke, curling and thinning until it disappears into a silence too heavy to hold. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to catch it, to weave their voices back into the fabric of this world as if I could braid memory into permanence. But no matter how tightly I grip, the strands slip through my fingers like vapor. Photographs are ghosts that don’t behave; they smile without warmth, they freeze in time while I keep moving farther away from the moment they were taken. Videos help for a while, until the sound cuts off, and I’m left staring at a still frame, begging pixels to come alive again. I replay their last words, their last embraces, over and over, like pressing on a bruise to prove it still hurts. I tell myself they’ve gone somewhere softer, somewhere beyond my reach, a place where pain doesn’t exist and the air is always gentle. I try to believe they’d beg me not to drown in this sea of “what ifs” and unfinished conversations, that they’d want me to keep breathing, keep living, keep loving. But grief is greedy, and memory is merciless, and sometimes the ache of their absence feels like a knife still lodged between my ribs. I tell myself to keep moving, to keep building a life in their honor. But sometimes, late at night, I let it get to me.

I rewrite our ending as though my words could stitch a wound shut, but no matter how many versions I create, the blood still seeps through, slow and stubborn. I imagine you reading my messages, deeply sighing the way you used to when I overthought everything, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smile at me. The silence between us feels like a locked room where all the light has been stolen, the walls pressing in, the air thick and still. I press my palms against the door, but nothing moves on the other side, not even a whisper. I tell myself this couldn’t have been just something brittle masquerading as love, but my hands still reach for the playlist you made me, the ones where every lyric felt like a confession, a secret held between us. I hear new music and wonder if you’ve already found it first, dissecting the lyrics the way we used to, teasing meaning out of moments I’ll never get back. In the quiet, I can still hear the way you said my name, your voice rising ever so slightly at the end, like a question wrapped in affection, and I feel that pull in my chest like gravity I can’t resist. I still hear the echo of a laugh that once anchored me, a sound that could have held the world together if it had only stayed. I miss the small things, Gummy Worm, the little nicknames, the way time seemed to fold in on itself when we were on the phone. And still, like a ritual I can’t break, I catch myself checking your status light more often than I care to admit. That tiny dot feels like the cruelest ghost, proof that you still exist, that you’re just beyond reach, breathing in a world where I am no longer invited. The countdown to your return sits like a stone in my stomach, a week feels impossibly close, yet the thought of you coming back into this world, the world I occupy alone, fills me with a hollow ache. It’s not a countdown for us anymore; it’s a reminder that the space between us has stretched into something permanent. My fingers hover over a blank message box like a ghost touching a doorknob, knowing it will never open, knowing that even if it did, the room, the rhythm, none of it would look the same anymore. But sometimes, late at night, I let it get to me.

Motherhood feels like standing barefoot on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched, trying to shield my children from storms I can’t see coming. The ground beneath me is always shifting, as if the earth itself knows how fragile this role is. I love them with a ferocity that rattles my bones, a love so consuming it feels less like a choice and more like a fire that’s been lit inside me without permission. But the weight of it sometimes presses down like an ocean on my ribcage, every wave a new fear: Am I doing enough? Am I teaching them to be strong without breaking them? Am I keeping them safe, or am I just delaying the inevitable cracks the world will try to carve into them? I tell myself I’m enough, that broken wings can still create shelter, that imperfection can still cradle. I count the tiny victories, the soft goodnights whispered in the dark, the way their eyes still search for mine when they’re scared, the I-love-yous that tumble out without hesitation. But in the quiet, the shadows come alive with sharper questions. What if I’m not enough? What if my hands miss the moment they slip? I picture all the ways I could fail them, the ways the world could bruise them before I can catch them. I picture headlines of tragedies, stories of children lost too soon, and I see my own reflected there like a nightmare with my name on it. The fear tastes like iron in my mouth, metallic and heavy, like blood I can’t spit out. I swallow it down, smile in the daylight, whisper hope into their hair as they sleep. But sometimes, late at night, I let it get to me.

Anxiety is a thief that never knocks, slipping into my chest with cold hands and making a home between my ribs. It hums like electricity under my skin, a constant buzzing that never fully fades, no matter how still the room becomes. My heart races when nothing is chasing me, my breath shortens even when the air is safe. Every decision feels like walking barefoot across broken glass… careful, calculated, terrified that one wrong step will leave me bleeding. I tell myself it’s only in my head, that fear is not prophecy, that the future does not have teeth waiting to tear me apart. Still, my mind plays movies I never asked to see… accidents that haven’t happened, failures that don’t yet exist, the people I love slipping from my grasp in a thousand different ways. My body reacts as if it’s already true: palms sweating, chest tightening, stomach knotting itself into rope. I try to anchor myself, whisper grounding words, count the things that are real… the floor under my feet, the air in my lungs, the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. And yet, beneath it all, the dread hums on like a low note I can’t tune out. I tell myself I’ve survived this storm before, that I know how to ride its waves without letting it pull me under. But sometimes, late at night, I let it get to me.

Depression is not a single shadow but a whole weather system, a storm that doesn’t knock before it enters, creeping in like fog under the doorframe, dampening everything it touches. It clings to the walls, seeps into my skin, and turns even the air heavy in my lungs. It steals color from my days until even joy feels muted, like a song playing in another room that’s familiar but unreachable, muffled by walls I can’t break through. The world carries on in bright tones and sharp edges, but I move through it as though submerged, every step slowed, every sound distorted, every smile forced through water. I tell myself I know this terrain, that I’ve been here before and built maps to find my way out. I remind myself of the exits: therapy, journaling, small sparks of light that have carried me through before. I promise myself tomorrow will bring brightness, that the sun is stubborn enough to rise whether or not I believe in it. But when the night stretches too long, the fog thickens, heavy and relentless, until it’s no longer air but an ocean. I am small again, shrinking against the weight, sinking in silence while everyone else seems to breathe just fine above the surface. My arms tire from reaching, my chest burns with the ache of trying, and still I tell myself I will rise, that my body remembers how to swim, that my lungs will eventually taste air again. But sometimes, late at night, I let it get to me.

And in the quiet, when the world is silent and only memory remains, the weight of all I’ve lost settles in beside me… and sometimes, late at night, I let the ghosts stay.