Echoes of Midnight

The bathroom tiles were freezing against my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warmth I’d left behind in bed. Not that the warmth had come from him—it was the blankets, maybe the fleeting heat from our bodies, but definitely not him. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I splashed water on my face. The tired woman staring back seemed distant, as if the night had stretched too far, too thin. My eyes were heavy, but sleep wasn’t what I wanted. Or maybe I just didn’t want to fall asleep next to someone I barely knew.

I grabbed my robe, feeling the soft fabric against my skin, though it did little to chase away the coldness that clung to me. The thought of returning to the bedroom made me pause. The stranger in my bed was a reminder of the choices I’d made tonight—choices that seemed so clear just hours ago but now felt like cracks in the night. Kicking him out wasn’t an option; it wasn’t his fault I was tangled in this mess.

I drifted into the living room and curled up in my favorite chair by the window. The night sky was so vast, dotted with stars that seemed too far away to care about anything happening below them. The familiar weight of the universe pressed down on me, and yet, for some reason, it felt less suffocating here, in this small bubble of quiet.

I pulled out my phone, staring at the screen longer than necessary. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing a message I didn’t expect a response to: “Are you there?” It was more of a question for myself than for him. A way to feel less alone in this moment, a lifeline I cast into the dark, hoping for something to pull me back.

I was about to set the phone down when it buzzed. The screen lit up with his face, and my heart did that annoying thing it always did when he called—skipped a beat, like it was preparing itself for something bigger. I hesitated, knowing this was probably a mistake, but I answered anyway.

“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” His voice was gentle but direct, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone. He didn’t bother with pleasantries; he never needed them with me. I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see me, so I added a soft, “Yeah.”

“Are you alone?” The question stung more than I wanted it to. I hated that the answer wasn’t what I wished it could be.

“No,” I whispered, hating how small the word sounded.

“Is he asleep?”

“Yes. I’m in the living room, watching the stars.” The words came out quieter than I intended, like I was confessing to something I wasn’t sure how to explain.

There was a pause, a soft sigh from his end. “Okay,” he said, and I could hear him moving, the sound of his footsteps padding softly, just like mine had moments ago. The rustling of sheets, the faint creak of a door—it all felt so intimate, yet so far away. “I’m putting you on speaker,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Just so you know if it sounds different.”

And then the music began.

It was slow at first, the gentle hum of piano chords that floated through the speaker, filling the silence between us. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The music wrapped around me, like it had been written for this moment, for this quiet between us. Each note felt like a breath, exhaling the tension from my body.

I leaned further into the chair, pulling the blanket from the couch and wrapping myself in it. The softness against my skin was a contrast to the cold that lingered in my chest. The night air was cool, but the music, his music, made me feel warm. Warmer than I had felt in bed with that stranger. Warmer than I had felt in a long time.

The stars outside seemed to shimmer a little brighter now, their distant light more comforting than before. I yawned, the weight of the day—or maybe just the weight of everything—settling over me. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until this very moment. I yawned again, this time louder, unashamed of how the exhaustion sounded.

“Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll always be here for you,” he murmured through the music, his voice low and comforting. It was the kind of promise I wanted to hold onto, even if I knew it was impossible. But tonight, in this fragile moment between wakefulness and sleep, I believed him.

I smiled to myself, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket. Maybe he really was my safe place. Maybe that’s what I’d been searching for all along, though the thought felt fragile, like it could shatter if I held it too tightly.

As the music continued, the world around me began to blur. My eyes fluttered closed, and the last thing I felt was the softness of the blanket, the soothing melody still playing, and the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet spaces of my mind. Tomorrow, I might remember his words, or maybe they’d drift away like the stars outside. But for now, they were enough.

For now, I was safe. For now, I slept.