I woke up before 6 this morning.
It was a still morning. The neighbors were asleep, and so were the birds that normally chirp and welcome in the day. Even the hum of the air conditioner wasn’t the omnipresent entity it usually is.
I woke up on my own a quarter of a day earlier than I normally do: I can’t remember the last time I saw this time of day as being the first thing I see after I wake instead of the last thing I see before I sleep. I don’t know why I was up. I have no reason to. I had an exhausting day yesterday, and for all intents and purposes should be in bed until at least noon.
But I was awake. I woke up on my own, not from a dream, or an alarm, or anything else. I don’t even know how I woke up; I was just awake.
And the first thought, the only thought, the most aching and persistent thought was that in the empty space beside me, you weren’t there. In that empty space beside me, you needed to be there. I could almost see your half naked form sleeping soundly. Perhaps you’d be snoring. Perhaps you’d be shielding your eyes from the light with an arm. Perhaps even, you’d be holding me. But the emptiness was too pervading, and soon all I saw was the empty bed once more.
I know that space isn’t going to be filled for a few good years. That realization brings about a pang of longing. I know it will be a long wait and I know there’s nothing else I can do. But it gives me hope that, after all that waiting, the bed will never have to feel this empty again.
And perhaps one day, I will see your half naked form sleeping soundly, perhaps snoring, perhaps shielding your eyes from the light with an arm, and perhaps even holding me. Perhaps, in another still moment like this one, I will watch you sleep and I will think about how lucky I am to finally have you at my side. Then I will slide myself beside you and lay my head on your chest, listening to you breathe and feeling your heart beat.
And maybe, in the same way I didn’t know how I woke up, I wouldn’t know that I’d already fallen back asleep.
