The 3:00 A.M. Special

It always starts the same. I’m lying in bed, phone on my chest, pretending I’m just “resting my eyes.” The room’s quiet, dark, respectful. Like it knows not to interrupt what’s coming next: the nightly screening of All The Things I Could’ve Done Differently, Vol. 726. Starring me, obviously. Directed by guilt. Edited by hindsight. And produced by that version of myself I keep trying to forget.

I don’t need Netflix. I’ve got a top-tier subscription to my own thoughts. And the 3:00 a.m. feature? Always the same playlist: that argument I lost months ago, the text I didn’t send, the phone call I avoided, and—everyone’s favorite—the people I let down. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes by silence.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, doing that deep-breath thing I read about on some productivity blog written by a guy who definitely never ruined anything important. I tell myself, “It’s okay. Let it go. Everyone makes mistakes.”

But apparently, my brain didn’t get the memo, because it leans over and whispers:

“Cool. So remember when you should’ve told her how you felt?”

It’s always louder when the world’s asleep.

During the day, I wear the uniform like everyone else. Smile at strangers. Nod through meetings. Make smart jokes that say “I’m fine” without ever having to prove it. But come nightfall, when the filters are off and the silence gets cocky, the guilt comes knocking like it pays rent.

Now I take it all. I let the memories come. I let them stay. Even when they hurt. Even when they show up uninvited in the middle of a normal Tuesday. Because those memories—both the good and the gut-wrenching—remind me I lived through something real. I felt something real.

And let’s be clear—I’m not talking about the big, dramatic mistakes. But, The way you pulled away just when they needed you to stay.

No one tells you that guilt ages like wine. It matures. Gets deeper. More complex. You don’t just remember what you did—you remember how they looked at you afterward. You remember the silence that followed. The last message they sent. The one you left on read.

And still, somehow…

Somehow I wish I could go back. Roll back the clock. Scrape the moment clean and try again. Say it right. Hold on tighter. Stay.

But here’s the twist I didn’t ask for:

If I took away the sadness, I know the joy would disappear too.

Because you can’t separate them.

The laughter, the warmth, the tiny perfect seconds of being seen—that’s what makes the loss hurt so much. If it hadn’t mattered, it wouldn’t still echo.

So now I take the memories as they come. All of them. The good, the brutal, the ones that hit like a punch in the ribs out of nowhere while you’re just trying to buy toothpaste.

And I let them live.

I let them sting.

Because sometimes, that’s all I have left of the people I used to be close to. A memory. A sound. A sentence I still whisper when I think no one’s listening.

I laugh a lot, you know. Loud, dry, the kind of laugh that makes people think I’ve got it all figured out. But most nights, I laugh so I don’t start talking. Because if I start talking, I might tell the truth. And the truth is:

I miss the old me.

The one who hadn’t messed it all up yet.

But this version?

He’s still learning how to carry it.