It\'s 3:17 again.
The fan keeps turning
like it has somewhere to be.
I have checked my phone eleven times.
There is nothing new.
I check again.
Somewhere, people are sleeping
beside the people they love.
Somewhere, someone is being missed
without knowing it.
And somewhere,
I am supposed to be doing something
with this life.
I don\'t know what.
I have ambitions that keep me awake
and a heart that doesn\'t know
what to do with the morning.
I want to leave this room.
I want to stay here forever.
I want someone to ask what\'s wrong.
I don\'t want to explain.
I want to be remembered.
I want to disappear
without becoming a tragedy
in somebody else\'s story.
There are so many versions of me
I haven\'t managed to become.
And tonight,
they all seem to be sleeping peacefully
while I lie awake
accounting for the distance.
At 3:17,
the world feels strangely honest.
Nobody is asking me to succeed.
Nobody is watching me pretend.
Even my reflection looks too tired
to offer another version of the truth.
I turn the phone face down.
Close my eyes.
And just before sleep arrives,
one thought crosses my mind:
I wonder how many nights
a person can spend waiting for life
before they realise
life has been waiting for them, too.