The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes midnight. Seven hours now. Seven hours of silence from upstairs, seven hours of not knowing if she's alright.
At two AM, I find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs.
I tell myself I'm just getting some air. Just checking the security of the upper floors.
But I'm lying to myself. I know exactly where I'm going.
Her door is closed. No light visible underneath. Either she's asleep or sitting in darkness. I raise my hand to knock, then freeze.
What would I even say? What right do I have to disturb her, to intrude on the space I promised her?
My hand drops to my side.
I should go back downstairs. Give her the privacy she asked for.
Instead, I sink down against the wall beside her door.
Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just long enough to know she's safe.
The floor is hard and cold. My back against the wall, knees drawn up, head tilted back. I can't hear anything from inside her room. No crying, no movement, no sound at all.
The silence is worse than screaming would be.
Minutes crawl past. Then an hour. Two hours.
My body aches. My eyes burn from exhaustion. But I can't make myself leave.
This is pathetic. I know it's pathetic.
A grown man sitting on the floor outside a woman's room. But I need to know she's alive, that she's breathing, that she hasn't done something desperate while I was downstairs pretending to respect her space.
Three AM. Four AM.
My head nods forward and jerks back up. I can't sleep. Won't sleep. If she needs something, if she calls out, if anything happens, I need to be here.
The exhaustion makes everything blur. My thoughts spiral in circles. What if she's already decided to leave? What if she's lying in there hating me? What if I've destroyed any chance we ever had?
What if I sit here all night and when she opens that door tomorrow, she looks at me with disgust instead of understanding?
Five AM. Six AM.
Dawn light starts creeping through the hallway windows. My body is stiff, my back screaming in protest. I should move, should go back downstairs before she finds me here, should maintain some shred of dignity.
But I can't make myself leave.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Soft, quiet, but definitely movement inside her room.
Relief crashes through me so violently I have to close my eyes. She's awake. She's alive. She made it through the night. It’ll get easier from here.
The footsteps move toward the bathroom. Water runs. The shower starts.
She's okay.
I push myself to my feet, every muscle protesting. My legs are numb from sitting in one position for hours. I have to grip the wall to stay upright.
