In the middle of the night, when I close my eyes to sleep, I feel him coming towards me. He sits on the edge of my bed. I open my eyes—I see him. He’s smiling at me. He starts playing with my hair. I can feel his touch, the warmth on this coldest night. It’s so vivid that it feels real.

I want to get up, to touch him, to hug him. But I’m afraid I might break this imagination, this dream. So I stay still. I just see him. And somehow, it’s enough.

In the darkness, I hear his voice calling my name, his sulked face as I don’t answer back. But how can I? I’m afraid. I’m scared.

In my room, it’s just his memories and me. I have painted his face on my walls, stuck his letters on the ceiling. People put stars and moons there, but for me, it’s his words.

Outside, a dog barks somewhere in the cold. The clock ticks. The whole neighborhood is asleep. At this quiet hour, between sleep and wake, I meet him every night. I can feel his presence. I have craved him.

I don’t move or say anything. I just see him. And in this state, I fall asleep.

When morning comes, it’s all empty. An ache blooms in my chest, and tears fall onto my pillow. I don’t have the energy to wake up. I stay in bed, waiting—for midnight, for him.

I know it’s crazy. But for now, it’s enough. And I’m happy to live for that midnight only.