Dear 4AM,

Hey old friend.

It’s me… again.

We really need to stop meeting like this. Or maybe we don’t…because let’s be honest, there’s something oddly comforting about you. You, with your stillness and silence. You’ve become a weird kind of companion. Not always invited, but always consistent. You’ve seen it all: the tears I didn’t let fall at 2PM, the spiral of thoughts that waited until the house was quiet, the scribbled ideas that only make sense in your strange little glow.

There’s a strange kind of magic to you. The rest of the world is sleeping, and I can almost pretend everything is fine. The alarms haven’t gone off yet, the meds aren’t due, the grief hasn’t gotten loud. Not yet. With you, it’s just me, and the thoughts I can’t run from, even when I try.

You’ve been there during the hardest nights and the weirdest revelations. You’ve seen me unravel and rebuild myself in the same breath. You’ve watched me cry over things I can’t change and laugh at memes I shouldn’t find funny. Honestly, you’re a bit toxic… but I keep coming back. Because at 4AM, I feel the most me. Raw. Creative. Clear-headed, somehow. It’s like my brain finally shuts up just enough to let my heart speak.

So here I am again, wrapped in a blanket that smells like too many days and typing on a phone screen like it’s my diary.

Thanks for being here, I guess.

But seriously, can we try 9AM sometime? I hear she’s got coffee.

With love (and sleep deprivation),

Your most devoted and reluctantly loyal admirer