Nothing good ever happens after 2 AM.
Sorry, Mosby (How I Met Your Mather). I’m not buying that one: it’s three hours past midnight, six hours since we were last together. A quarter of a day about to pass since you last held my hand, leaving a faint scent on my skin.
Not so long ago, you jumped, head first into the unknown. Not letting the fear of falling take over. I didn’t take the leap, believing that everything that falls gets broken. I couldn’t risk it. With calculated steps and heavy breathing, I walked on a brittle staircase that courses its way down. Down towards you? Down to see if you’re waiting? Yes, down for you.
A phone call was all it took – your undoing, my walls breaking. With tear-strained voice, you mutter those three words. The night’s still and silent; your whisper resonated in every beat my heart made. Three little words, each with a single syllable and not exceeding four letters: a well-built fortress collapsing, brick by brick, one by one. Each brick relentlessly pushing me farther down. Down, to you.
I may not be there yet but hold on for a little longer. Let me find my way, bear with me still if you may. Allow me to be your “one worth the wait“.