Midnight as a Therapist

Midnight doesn’t ask for an appointment.

It shows up, as it always does—quiet, patient, draped in velvet shadows—and waits on the edge of your bed like an old friend who’s heard your name whispered through sleepless hours.

You don’t remember when the sessions started. Maybe it was after the heartbreak, or the funeral, or that one quiet Tuesday when you realized you couldn’t remember the last time you felt joy without guilt.

Whatever it was, Midnight heard it.

And so, every night, at 12:04 a.m., you meet.

The room is never quite dark.

Not fully.

There’s always a glow from the streetlight outside your window, flickering just enough to cast moving silhouettes—like the ghosts of passing thoughts pacing your walls.

You sit cross-legged on the bed, hands in your lap. Midnight leans against the dresser, arms folded, saying nothing.

That’s how it always begins: silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that feels like it’s listening.

You talk first.

You always do.

“I thought I was better today,” you say, staring at your hands. “I made coffee without crying.”

Midnight nods. Encouraging. Present.

“I even replied to two texts. That’s… something, right?”

The silence shifts—gentle, but honest. Not judgmental, but not patronizing either.

You nod, more to yourself.

“But then I saw her sweater in the back of the closet. And I just sat there. On the floor. For an hour. Holding it like it could still smell like her.”

Your throat tightens. Midnight waits. Doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t try to fix you. Just listens.

That’s the thing about Midnight—it never interrupts. It doesn’t ask, “Why didn’t you try harder?” or “Haven’t you moved on yet?” It never glances at a clock or checks its phone. You have its full attention, the kind people crave but rarely get from the living.

“I lied,” you confess. “When I said I was okay.”

Midnight tilts its head.

“I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want to ruin the moment. Everyone was laughing and smiling, and I… I wanted to pretend.”

Midnight doesn’t flinch.

Because pretending is something it knows too well.

You ask a question you don’t expect answered.

“Why does it only hurt at night?”

Midnight shrugs—if shadows can shrug. You imagine it saying: Because the distractions sleep then. And the truth wakes up.

You lay back on the bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like constellations only you can see. Some nights you imagine they spell out names—names of the people you’ve lost, or the parts of yourself you left behind.

“I miss who I was,” you whisper. “Before.”

Before the world taught you how to wear a mask. Before your dreams shrank to fit your inbox. Before love came with conditions.

“I used to believe in things. Magic. Miracles. That people stayed.”

Midnight doesn't laugh at your naivety. It honors it.

“I still talk to her,” you say, voice small. “My mom. I know she’s gone. But when the kettle whistles or the wind knocks something over… I pretend it’s her. Just for a second.”

The silence that follows is not heavy.

It’s sacred.

And for the first time in days, you don’t feel embarrassed about needing someone who’s no longer here.

Midnight understands. Midnight has heard stranger confessions.

You sit up again, wiping your eyes. Not crying, exactly—just leaking from places that forgot how to hold things in.

“I don’t want to be fixed,” you murmur. “I just want someone to say it makes sense. That the sadness doesn’t make me weak. That missing people is okay—even years later.”

Midnight says nothing.

But in that silence, you find more validation than a thousand empty platitudes.

You exhale, finally. Fully.

And Midnight exhales with you.

The clock says 2:13 a.m. now.

You’re tired—but not in the same way.

Not the “I can’t do this anymore” tired.

But the “I finally said it out loud” tired.

You pull the blanket up to your chin and turn toward the wall. Midnight stands slowly. Doesn’t make a sound.

At the doorway, it pauses.

You whisper, “Same time tomorrow?”

And though it doesn’t answer, you know it will be there.

Because Midnight is always on call.