It’s 3AM again. The world is still, but my thoughts are anything but.

I slip out of bed, careful not to wake the dogs. I’ve learned how to move quietly, like a ghost in my own home. The kitchen is dark except for the soft green glow of the microwave clock. I don’t turn on the light—I know this path too well. I reach for the coffee pot, not because I need the caffeine, but because I need something. Something warm. Something to hold. Something that reminds me I’m still here.

I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. It anchors me—at least a little.

Nights like these have a way of dragging everything out. Every thought I’ve tried to tuck away during the day finds its way back in the quiet. I think about the conversations we had. The ones we didn’t. The things I wish I’d said, the moments I wish I’d held onto longer. I wonder what I missed. I wonder if I did enough.

He’s in a hospital bed. Withdrawn. Silent. And I’m here, with a cup of coffee and a heart that can’t seem to stop breaking.

This is the part no one talks about. The loneliness of loving someone through their darkness. The helplessness of watching them hurt, knowing there’s no fix. The strange grief that comes from mourning someone who is still alive.

3AM knows too much. It knows about the tears we swallow just to get through the day. It knows about the waiting, the hoping, the aching. It knows the sound of silence when your world feels like it’s coming undone.

So it’s just me. And the coffee. And this ache that refuses to let go.