3:14am. Wide awake. Again.
There’s this man who probably doesn’t give me a single second thought, but still manages to watch every Instagram story I post. Every. Single. One. And I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it means nothing, but at 3am it feels like some kind of haunting. Like he’s living rent-free in the corner of my phone screen, quietly reminding me that I’m not quite invisible but not really seen either.
I keep thinking about my future or more accurately, the massive black hole where my future should be. Everyone else seems to have direction, or at least the performance of direction: jobs, titles, next steps. And I’m over here trying to squeeze meaning out of late-night caffeine and half-formed thoughts. I scroll through job boards and feel nothing. Just a pit in my stomach and the sense that none of it will stick.
And the headache, God, the headache. It’s there every day now. Not sharp, not urgent, just this dull throb that feels like my body’s way of saying, enough. Maybe it’s dehydration, maybe stress, maybe I’m just tired of my own overthinking. But it lingers, like it’s feeding off my insomnia.
So I make another cup of espresso because what else is there to do at this hour? I write in circles. I stare at the ceiling. I check who’s watched my stories, like a ritual. I convince myself I’m about to stumble onto an epiphany if I just stay awake a little longer.
But it’s just me.
Me, my headache, my coffee, and the quiet suspicion that I’m both too much and not enough all at once.
That’s the crisis.
That’s the content.
this is so beautiful