I walked out of a season
where love spoke in echoes
and promises learned how to bruise.
My tears became fluent—
especially at 3 a.m.,
when the world slept
and my heart refused to.
Those hours knew me well.
They heard my questions,
saw me fold into myself,
counting ceilings,
learning how lonely can sound.
I broke, yes—
but not the way ruins break.
I broke like soil
waiting for rain.
Then came a man
whose name means more than sound.
A name that carries order,
the quiet architecture of peace.
Not loud, not hurried—
but steady,
like wisdom that sits before it speaks.
He did not interrupt the pain.
He arrived after it.
Standing gently where the tears once fell,
turning 3 a.m. memories
into lessons that no longer bleed.
Now, when the clock returns to that hour,
it no longer scares me.
It reminds me
that I survived myself
and still learned how to smile again.
Happiness, I’ve learned,
doesn’t rush in.
It recognizes you
when you are ready to stop crying in the dark
and start breathing in the light.
And so I rise—
not because the night didn’t hurt,
but because morning stayed.
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