Wednesday
Favoured Frenzy
It was 3:39 a.m.
That hour where the world forgets to breathe,
where even time moves quietly,
as if it doesn’t want to disturb the fragile hearts
still awake.
That’s when my phone lit up.
Not once.
Not twice.
But thirty-one times
all at once
like he emptied his silence into my hands
before walking away.
Thirty-one messages.
Delivered together.
As if he knew
this was the last moment he could speak freely
before duty claimed his voice.
In those messages,
he told me he was going.
Not dramatically.
Not painfully.
Just truthfully.
He told me to be safe.
Over and over, in different ways
as if my safety mattered so much
that it deserved repetition.
He wished me a Happy New Year.
At 3:39 a.m.
While the world was still drunk on celebration,
he chose concern.
I sat there,
half-asleep, fully undone,
watching the screen glow
like a quiet confession.
Each message felt deliberate.
As if he had been composing them
in his head long before sending them
saving them for a moment
when he could finally let go.
Some were gentle.
Some were firm.
Some carried a softness
he rarely allows himself.
And some felt unfinished
as though he stopped himself
from saying too much.
I could feel the weight behind them.
The restraint.
The care.
He didn’t speak of danger.
He didn’t speak of fear.
He spoke of me.
Please take care.
Be safe.
As if my ordinary life
was something sacred
worth guarding from afar.
At 3:39 a.m.,
the new year didn’t arrive with fireworks for me.
It arrived with concern,
discipline,
and love wrapped in responsibility.
I realized then
love doesn’t always ask you to stay.
Sometimes it prepares you to leave
without leaving someone unprotected.
He sent all thirty-one messages at once
because he knew
there wouldn’t be another chance like that.
Because once he crossed that line,
words would become limited,
and silence would take over.
So he gave me everything he could
before going quiet.
I read them slowly.
Then again.
Then once more
as if rereading could delay time,
as if staying inside his words
could keep him close a little longer.
While he stepped into a place
where nights stay alert
and mornings carry weight,
I stayed behind
holding proof
that I mattered enough
to be thought of at the very edge of departure.
I saved every message.
Not because I’m afraid to lose them,
but because they are a moment frozen in honesty
the exact second
before distance became real.
If he ever wonders
whether sending them all at once was too much
it wasn’t.
They became my shield that night.
My first truth of the new year.
My quiet assurance
that even while leaving,
he chose to protect my heart.
At 3:39 a.m.,
when most of the world was asleep,
he loved me the only way he could
carefully, completely,
and without asking for anything in return.
And I will carry that into this year.
Into the waiting.
Into the silence.
Into every night that feels long.
Because some love doesn’t arrive loudly.
Some love arrives all at once,
in thirty-one messages,
at 3:39 a.m.
and stays.
-Yours, holding your words
Weds uh
That hour where the world forgets to breathe,
where even time moves quietly,
as if it doesn’t want to disturb the fragile hearts
still awake.
That’s when my phone lit up.
Not once.
Not twice.
But thirty-one times
all at once
like he emptied his silence into my hands
before walking away.
Thirty-one messages.
Delivered together.
As if he knew
this was the last moment he could speak freely
before duty claimed his voice.
In those messages,
he told me he was going.
Not dramatically.
Not painfully.
Just truthfully.
He told me to be safe.
Over and over, in different ways
as if my safety mattered so much
that it deserved repetition.
He wished me a Happy New Year.
At 3:39 a.m.
While the world was still drunk on celebration,
he chose concern.
I sat there,
half-asleep, fully undone,
watching the screen glow
like a quiet confession.
Each message felt deliberate.
As if he had been composing them
in his head long before sending them
saving them for a moment
when he could finally let go.
Some were gentle.
Some were firm.
Some carried a softness
he rarely allows himself.
And some felt unfinished
as though he stopped himself
from saying too much.
I could feel the weight behind them.
The restraint.
The care.
He didn’t speak of danger.
He didn’t speak of fear.
He spoke of me.
Please take care.
Be safe.
As if my ordinary life
was something sacred
worth guarding from afar.
At 3:39 a.m.,
the new year didn’t arrive with fireworks for me.
It arrived with concern,
discipline,
and love wrapped in responsibility.
I realized then
love doesn’t always ask you to stay.
Sometimes it prepares you to leave
without leaving someone unprotected.
He sent all thirty-one messages at once
because he knew
there wouldn’t be another chance like that.
Because once he crossed that line,
words would become limited,
and silence would take over.
So he gave me everything he could
before going quiet.
I read them slowly.
Then again.
Then once more
as if rereading could delay time,
as if staying inside his words
could keep him close a little longer.
While he stepped into a place
where nights stay alert
and mornings carry weight,
I stayed behind
holding proof
that I mattered enough
to be thought of at the very edge of departure.
I saved every message.
Not because I’m afraid to lose them,
but because they are a moment frozen in honesty
the exact second
before distance became real.
If he ever wonders
whether sending them all at once was too much
it wasn’t.
They became my shield that night.
My first truth of the new year.
My quiet assurance
that even while leaving,
he chose to protect my heart.
At 3:39 a.m.,
when most of the world was asleep,
he loved me the only way he could
carefully, completely,
and without asking for anything in return.
And I will carry that into this year.
Into the waiting.
Into the silence.
Into every night that feels long.
Because some love doesn’t arrive loudly.
Some love arrives all at once,
in thirty-one messages,
at 3:39 a.m.
and stays.
-Yours, holding your words
Weds uh
.Words have power and it's visible how u describe it 
