By the fourth time I flipped my pillow to the cold side, I accepted the truth: sleep and I were no longer on speaking terms.
Not because of regret.
Not because of guilt.
But because my mind had turned into a private screening of everything that had shifted — replaying it on a loop I never asked for, in high definition, with sound, emotion, and far too much honesty.
Every time I closed my eyes, I wasn't in my bedroom anymore.
I was back in her room.
Back in that space between what almost happened and what absolutely changed.
Back in the silence that carried more meaning than any words we'd said.
I turned onto my side.
Then my back.
Then stared at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
The clock glowed in the dark, quietly judging me.
2:41 a.m.
Still awake.
3:09 a.m.
Still replaying her eyes.
3:36 a.m.
Still feeling the weight of her trust against my chest — and the restraint it had taken not to let that moment become something else entirely.
Not loudly.
