The Fridge's Hum

The apartment at 2 AM

was a symphony of small

sounds: the fridge's

persistent hum, the drip

of a faucet in the

bathroom, the occasional

creak of pipes settling.

She sat on the floor

with her back against the

sofa, a cold mug of tea

forgotten beside her. The

TV was on mute, casting

blue light that made the

shadows of her plants

stretch like thin fingers

across the wall. She

counted the tiles on the

kitchen floor—seventeen.

Then counted them again.

The phone screen lit up

with a notification, but

it was just a weather

alert. She didn't reach

for it. Instead, she

turned up the volume on

the TV, just enough to

hear a stranger's laugh

echo through the empty

room.

The fridge hummed on,

indifferent. She pulled

her knees to her chest

and watched the numbers

on the microwave clock

change—3:04, 3:05,

3:06.

Loneliness was a room that fit only one, but felt twice as big at night.