The Longest Night

The clock on the nightstand glows 2:47 AM, its red digits burning into my retinas. I’ve been staring at it for hours, or maybe it’s only been minutes. Time’s gone slippery, like trying to hold water in your fists. The room is too quiet, except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the house settling, it’s restless too. I turn onto my side and try to close my eyes. They snap open again. Sleep isn’t coming. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow looms like a guillotine.

I sit up, rubbing my face, my stubble scratching against my palms. The darkness feels heavy, pressing against my chest. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the cold hardwood floor. Maybe movement will help. Maybe if I pace, I can outrun the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. I stand, my knees creaking, and start walking the perimeter of the bedroom, past the dresser with its neat stack of folded clothes, past the window where the streetlight bleeds through the blinds, casting slatted shadows across the floor.

What have I done to get here? The question loops in my head, relentless. I think about the choices, the moments that stacked up like bricks to build this night. There was that summer evening, years ago, when I was twenty-two, sitting on the hood of my old Chevy with a beer in my hand, watching the sun sink into the horizon. I felt invincible then, like the world was mine to take. I made promises to myself—big ones, stupid ones. I’d be someone. I’d live a life that mattered. But promises are fragile things, and life has a way of grinding them into dust.

I stop pacing and lean against the wall, my forehead pressing against the cool plaster. My heart’s beating too fast, like it’s trying to outrun tomorrow. I think about my dad, how he looked the last time I saw him, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. He told me to be careful, to think about the consequences of my actions. “You don’t get to choose what sticks to you,” he said, his voice rough with regret. I didn’t listen. I was too busy chasing something, freedom, maybe, or just the thrill of saying yes to things I shouldn’t have. Now, standing here in the dark, I wonder if he’d be proud or ashamed of where I’ve ended up.

The clock ticks to 3:15 AM. I move to the window, pulling the blinds apart to peer outside. The street is empty, the world asleep. A stray cat slinks across the pavement, its eyes glinting under the streetlight. I envy its indifference, its ability to move through the night without dread. I let the blinds snap shut and head to the kitchen. Maybe a drink will settle my nerves. Not alcohol, that’s a bad idea, considering what’s coming. Water, then. I fill a glass from the tap, the faucet sputtering, and take a sip. It tastes metallic, like the air before a storm.

I sit at the kitchen table, the glass sweating in my hand. My mind drifts to her. Not her face, not yet, just the idea of her. The way she changed everything. I met her at a time when I was running, not sure from what, but running all the same. She was like a wall I didn’t see coming, solid and unyielding, forcing me to stop. I didn’t want to stop. I fought it, pushed against it, but she was patient. Too patient, maybe. She saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and now here I am, on the edge of something I can’t undo.

The glass is empty now. I don’t remember drinking it. My hands are shaking, just a little, enough to notice. I clench them into fists, trying to steady myself. What if I’m not ready? What if I’ve made a mistake? The thought is a knife, twisting in my gut. I’ve made mistakes before, plenty of them. There was that night in Dallas, the one I don’t talk about, where I walked away from something I shouldn’t have. I told myself it was survival, that I didn’t have a choice. But choices are never that clean, are they? They leave stains, and I’ve been carrying those stains for years.

I stand and move to the living room, sinking into the couch. The cushions are worn, sagging under my weight. I lean back, staring at the ceiling, where a water stain from last year’s leak spreads like a bruise. I think about my brother, how he used to call me out for being reckless. “You’re gonna end up somewhere you can’t come back from,” he’d say, half-joking, half-worried. I laughed it off, told him he worried too much. But now, with the clock ticking toward dawn, I wonder if he was right. Maybe this is the place I can’t come back from.

The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in. I get up and head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—bags under my eyes, skin pale, jaw tight. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whitening. I try to breathe, slow and deep, like they teach you in those mindfulness apps I never use. It doesn’t help. The weight is still there, heavy on my shoulders, like I’m carrying the whole damn world.

I think about my mom, how she’d pray when things got hard. She’d sit at the kitchen table, her hands folded, whispering words I couldn’t hear. I was never good at that stuff, but right now, I wish I was. I wish I had something to hold onto, something to make sense of this feeling that I’m standing on a cliff, and tomorrow I’m going to fall. I dry my face with a towel and head back to the bedroom, lying down again, staring at the ceiling. The clock says 4:03 AM. Dawn’s not far off now.

I try to think about something else, anything else. My old job, maybe, the one I quit last year. I liked it, in a way—predictable, safe. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more, always more. That’s what got me here, isn’t it? Wanting too much, reaching too far. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I see her again, not her face, but her hands, small and steady, holding mine. I remember the way she laughed, sharp and bright, like it could cut through the dark. I don’t deserve that laugh. I don’t deserve her.

The clock ticks to 4:45 AM. The sky outside is starting to get light, a thin gray creeping through the blinds. My chest tightens. It’s almost time. I think about running—grabbing my keys, getting in the car, driving until the road ends. I could disappear, start over somewhere new. But I know I won’t. I’ve run before, and it didn’t fix anything. It just made the stains darker.

I sit up again, my head throbbing. I think about the people who’ll be there tomorrow, watching, waiting. My brother, probably still worried. My mom, praying. My friends, the ones who stuck around after everything. They’ll all be looking at me, expecting something. What if I let them down? What if I let her down? The thought is unbearable, a weight I can’t carry. I stand and start pacing again, faster this time, my bare feet slapping against the floor.

I stop at the dresser, where a small box sits, unopened. I haven’t looked inside it in weeks, but I know what’s there. I don’t need to see it to feel its weight. It’s a symbol of everything I’m facing, everything I’m afraid of. I reach out, my fingers brushing the lid, but I pull back. Not yet. I’m not ready.

The clock says 5:30 AM. The world is waking up now, birds chirping outside, the first cars rumbling down the street. I’m running out of time, like the hours are slipping through my fingers. I think about my dad again, his warning about consequences. I think about my brother, his half-joking prophecy. I think about her, the way she looked at me when I said yes, like I was giving her the world. I don’t know if I can live up to that.

I lie back down, my mind racing. The ceiling fan spins lazily above me, its blades cutting through the air. I try to count the rotations, anything to distract myself, but the thoughts keep coming. What if I’m not enough? What if tomorrow changes everything, and I’m not ready for it? What if I’ve been running toward this moment my whole life, and now that it’s here, I can’t face it?

The clock ticks to 6:00 AM. The sun is up now, painting the room in soft gold. I haven’t slept, not a wink. My body feels like lead, but my mind is a thunderstorm. I think about the day ahead, the hours stretching out like a sentence. I think about the people, the place, the moment I can’t escape. I think about her, and for the first time tonight, I let myself see her face. Her eyes, warm and steady. Her smile, soft but sure. She’s the reason I’m here, the reason I’m terrified, the reason I can’t run.

I get up, my legs shaking, and move to the window. The world outside is bright now, alive. Deep breath, my first real breath in hours. The fear is still there, but it’s quieter now, like a tide pulling back. I turn to the dresser, open the box, and look at the ring inside. It’s simple, gold, hers. I close the box and hold it in my hand, its weight grounding me.

And as the sun rises, I know, ready or not, I’m going to walk down that aisle. The most beautiful girl in the world, my girl, will be there with me. I may not deserve her but for whatever reason, she thinks I’m enough. She loves me. She adores me. She looks at me with that look as if I’m someone special. Today’s the day I marry her.