The Note I Wrote Them Once
the baby next door used to break my heart at two. tonight i checked the time and went back to my phone.
This one goes to a heavy place. If you’d rather not read it tonight, that’s a fine choice — support resources are here.
the baby next door starts up around two most nights. thin walls in this building, you end up learning everyone's schedule whether you want it or not. i know when the guy upstairs showers. i know their tv gets loud on thursdays. i know this.
the first few months it wrecked me. i'd lie there aching for that kid, for whoever was pacing with it, half-wanting to knock and ask if they needed anything. i wrote them a note once. never slid it under the door, but i wrote it.
tonight it started again and i just reached over, checked the time, went back to my phone. 2:11. the way you check the weather. somewhere in the last year i started hearing it like the fridge cycling on. background. a thing the building does at night.
i keep telling myself that's only what close walls do to a person, you go numb so you can sleep, and it says nothing about me. the crying stopped a few minutes ago. i'm still awake, and i don't want to look too hard at which part of that i'm relieved about.
Did this one stay with you?
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