She Only Texts Me at 3AM

It started seven nights ago, when I lay in the dark staring at the cracked ceiling, replaying the stupid fight I’d had with my best friend. My phone buzzed at exactly 3:00 AM, lighting up with those four words: “Do you feel alone?” No name, no picture—just that eerie question. My heart thudded so loud I was sure my parents would wake. I shoved the phone under my pillow and pretended to sleep, but my mind raced until dawn.

The next night, at 3:00, it buzzed again: “Still listening to your racing thoughts?” I rolled over and traced the letters with my fingertip, surprised at how comforted I felt. Someone out there noticed my sleepless spiral, and that tiny spark of connection eased the knot in my chest.

The following afternoon, I moved through the halls like a shadow. In gym class I lagged, lungs burning, each breath heavy with exhaustion. My bag felt impossible to carry, and every time the bell rang I flinched, remembering that third text. I swallowed lunch in the library, jaw clenched, heart half-expecting the next warning.

That night, exactly at 3:00, the message came: “Avoid the east hallway. Bad things happen there.” My chest tightened so hard I thought I’d choke. I barely slept, turning every possible scenario over in my head.

The next morning, I found out why. At the start of second period, the east hallway erupted into violence. Two seniors—huge, muscle‑defined guys from the football team—were thrown together like gladiators. One shoved the other so hard his helmeted head slammed against the row of lockers with a metal-on-metal scream. Sparks of paint chipped off the lockers; a piercing crack echoed down the corridor. The shoved boy retaliated, swinging his clenched fist into the other’s jaw. I watched, frozen, as his teeth grazed the skin, a line of crimson blossoming across his lip. Then the first guy grabbed a handful of the other’s jersey and yanked him backward, sending him crashing headfirst into a glass trophy case. The glass shattered outward in a shower of glittering shards, some slicing into the tile, some pinging off the second boy’s uniform. He staggered out, dazed, blood trickling down his temple. The corridor filled with screams—teachers hollering, kids rushing back, alarms blaring in my head. Two coaches barreled in, arms locked around each fighter’s shoulders, wrenching them apart as the broken glass crunched underfoot. In that instant, I realized I was safe only because I’d heeded that midnight warning. My legs finally moved, carrying me away before the security guards and paramedics flooded the hallway. My phone burned in my pocket, and I slipped out a photo of the text, fingers trembling.

On the fourth night, at 3:00, I saw: “Your parents broke tonight.” I swallowed hard, thinking of the slammed doors and raw voices that had ripped through our kitchen. I didn’t reply. I just lay there, letting the words settle around me like a strange kind of comfort.

When morning came, I felt hollow but strangely braced for the day. At breakfast, I avoided my parents’ eyes as they sat stiffly on opposite sides of the table, plates untouched. I didn’t need the text to tell me what I already knew.

The fifth night brought a different kind of message: “You will laugh tomorrow. Trust it.” I rolled my eyes, but tucked the phone under my pillow with a tiny spark of hope.

The next afternoon in art club, the impossible happened. Mr. Harper, our usual history sub, had us sculpt with clay—nothing serious, he said. I sat beside Lana, the friend I’d fought with, and we both stared at our pathetic lumps of gray. Then Mr. Harper’s clay bust cracked in his hands, and he let out the worst dad-joke groan I’ve ever heard. We all broke into laughter—awkward at first, then full-throated and roaring. Lana and I exchanged a look, and the tension between us dissolved in that noisy, ridiculous moment. I laughed so hard my sides ached, and for once it felt like sunlight cutting through a storm cloud.

Now it’s night six. I lie here, wide awake, waiting. The house is silent except for the hum of the streetlight outside. When the clock flips to 3:00 AM, my phone buzzes once more:

“You are not invisible.”

I trace the words and close my eyes. Tomorrow will bring new challenges—new fights, new cracks in my life—but I know this: at exactly the same hour, I’ll get another message reminding me I matter. And somehow, that changes everything.