I've been watching the clock instead of sleeping. 2:48. I looked away for what felt like a long time — long enough to think a whole tired circle of thoughts — and looked back and it said 2:48 still. Then 2:49, like it had been waiting for me to notice.
I know how this sounds. I know I lost time, that the mind does that at this hour, folds minutes over each other and calls it stillness. But I can't shake the feeling that the night isn't moving the way it's supposed to, that I'm the only thing in the house still going forward and everything else has quietly stopped to wait.
My heart is going faster than the room. I can hear it. The clock turns over to 2:50 and I feel almost grateful, like it's proof the world is still bothering.
I don't want to look away again. I know that if I do, I'll have to come back and check. And I already know I'm going to check. I've already decided. The next time I look up, I want it to be later than this. I'm not sure it will be.