DARK WHISPERS SERIES

Midnight doesn’t ask questions.

It just arrives, uninvited, unbothered, unforgiving.

It creeps through my ribs,

pulls up a chair beside my chest,

and says,

"So, how long are we pretending today?"

I lie in a bed that forgets my shape.

Sheets tangled like thoughts I didn’t finish thinking.

I wear silence like armor—

But it’s rusting.

Midnight doesn’t fix me.

It just listens.

And somehow,

that’s enough

to make me want to wake up

again.

Midnight doesn’t ask questions.

It just slips in, barefoot and uninvited,

pulling up a chair beside my cluttered mind

like it lives here.

And maybe it does.

Maybe it always has.

It doesn’t knock.

It doesn’t wait for permission.

It knows the way in—

through the cracks I pretend don’t exist,

through the pause between texts I didn’t send,

through the echo of my name

when no one’s saying it.

Midnight never asks, How are you?

It already knows.

It sees the mask I left in the kitchen sink

next to half-washed dishes

and a coffee cup from three days ago.

It doesn’t ask why I haven’t folded the laundry.

Why my light stays on at 3:27 a.m.

Why my journal has more crossed-out words

than whole ones.

It knows.

Midnight always knows.

It doesn’t judge me

for eating toast and crying over nothing.

Or everything.

I never really know which.

It just watches,

quietly,

while I sit on the floor,

trying to remember what peace feels like

and whether I ever really had it

or just imagined it

like a child building castles in smoke.

Midnight is honest.

It holds up a mirror

and doesn’t flinch when I look away.

It lets me feel things

I don’t let daylight touch—

the kind of feelings that don’t wear makeup,

the kind I can’t explain in bullet points or quotes.

Grief that doesn’t scream.

Loneliness that shows up

even in rooms full of people.

Regret with sharp teeth

and soft, familiar eyes.

I talk to the ceiling sometimes.

Ask questions like:

“Why do I still miss people who hurt me?”

“Why does healing feel like losing myself?”

“Why do I keep watering dead plants?”

Midnight doesn’t answer.

It just listens.

And in that silence,

I learn the sound of my own voice again—

shaky,

worn-out,

real.

Sometimes, I imagine midnight as a friend.

Not a comforting one,

but the kind who sits with you in the dirt

instead of trying to pull you out.

It doesn’t hand me platitudes.

Doesn’t say, “It gets better,”

or “You’re stronger than this.”

It just stays.

And in a world full of people who walk away,

sometimes staying

is enough.

Midnight sees the old texts I reread

like I’m looking for pieces of myself

in someone else’s goodbye.

It sees the way I flinch at my own reflection.

The way I press my fingers to my chest,

just to make sure I’m still here—

still trying.

It doesn’t ask why I’m still healing from things

that happened years ago.

Why I still write letters I’ll never send.

Why I carry sadness like it’s stitched into my skin.

It just breathes with me.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

And when the tears dry,

when my bones stop buzzing,

when the ache folds itself back into silence—

Midnight is still there.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

Just… present.

Maybe that’s what I needed all along.

Not solutions.

Not sermons.

Just space.

And something that doesn’t ask questions.

Because sometimes,

the bravest thing you can do

is just sit with the storm

until it learns your name

and soften.

Indeed, Midnight doesn't ask questions,

I do the asking,

It does the...timing.