3 am thoughts

3 a.m. thoughts hit differently, don’t they? It’s quiet, too quiet, and suddenly it’s just you and the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding all day. The world feels still, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to figure it all out.

I wonder if anyone else is awake right now, staring at their ceiling, feeling this same strange ache. Not exactly sadness, but not peace either. It’s like a hollow space that doesn’t have a name. Maybe that’s why people say "you’re not alone," but they never tell you how to feel it.

I wonder if anyone else feels this way—like the darkness is a mirror, showing you everything you try not to see. The mistakes, the regrets, the dreams you’re too scared to chase. It’s overwhelming, but at the same time, it feels... honest. Like the silence isn’t here to hurt you; it’s here to remind you that you’re still alive, still trying.

The clock ticks louder at night. Did you notice that? It’s like a reminder that time’s slipping through my fingers, and I’m not sure if I’m using it right. Am I making enough of this life? Or am I just getting through it, waiting for the next thing, the next distraction?

The funny thing about 3 a.m. is that it makes the world feel huge and small all at once. Huge, because the future feels endless and terrifying. Small, because somehow, right now, this moment feels like the only thing that matters.
Sometimes, I think about the people I’ve loved, the ones I’ve hurt, and the ones who hurt me. And I wonder—do they think of me too? Or am I just a passing thought in their sleepless nights, like a flicker of light before they drift back into dreams? Maybe the stillness isn’t here to mock me but to hold me, gently, like a whispered, “You’ll be okay.”
And somehow, I believe it. Or maybe I just want to.