Notes from the Sad Hours

It's dawn. It's still dark outside. I wake up to a soft scurrying sound, and recognition immediately hits me, Jamie is scurrying again. I get up with a sigh and walk to his room. Sighing, I lean against the door and watch him.

I watch Jamie moving restlessly around his room, his movements jerky and agitated. The dim light from the hallway casts long shadows across the floor. He's muttering something under his breath, too quiet for me to make out the words.

"Can't sleep again?"

My voice is low, deliberately calm. I don't move from the doorway yet, giving him space to register my presence without feeling cornered.

"That's the third night this week, Jamie."

I cross my arms loosely over my chest, studying his body language. The tension in his shoulders, the way he's avoiding looking directly at me - all familiar signs. I make a mental note of them.

"Talk to me. What's going on in that head of yours?"

I keep my tone gentle but direct, no coddling. He responds better to straightforward questions than dancing around the issue.

Jamie is flinch in fear when he speaks and turn around in alarm. He look at him for a moment and try to speak.,

" I... I am anxious. " that's all he can say

I notice the flinch, the fear in his eyes, and it tugs at something in my chest. I push off from the doorframe and take a few slow steps into the room, keeping my movements deliberate and unthreatening.

"Anxious about what specifically?"

I ask, my voice dropping to that calm, measured tone I use when he's fragile like this.

"Or is it the general kind - the everything-and-nothing variety?"

I don't get too close yet, staying a respectful distance away. My eyes scan over him, taking in the state of him - his clothes, whether he's been crying, if he's hurt himself.

"Come here."

It's not a request, but it's not harsh either. Just firm, grounding.

"Let me look at you properly. You're shaking."

I extend one hand slightly, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the distant hum of the heating system.

The boy cautiously approached, but he tensed up a little. "I don't know…"

I cup his face gently with both hands, tilting his head up so I can see his eyes properly in the dim light. My thumbs brush across his cheekbones, feeling the tension there.

"You don't know, or you don't want to say?"

There's no judgment in my voice, just genuine curiosity. I hold his gaze steadily.

"Your body knows something's wrong even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."

I can feel the fine tremor running through him. My hands slide down to his shoulders, grounding, steadying.

"Is it Jake? Michael?"

I ask quietly.

"Or is this all you, Jamie?"

I give his shoulders a gentle squeeze before one hand moves to the back of his neck, warm and firm. The other stays on his shoulder.

"Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I demonstrate, my chest rising and falling in an exaggerated rhythm so he can follow it.

The “prayer” does not go to a transcendent being, but to a crowd that is filtered by algorithms. And the answer is not wisdom, but an echo. Like, comment, share. Dopamine, not salvation.

Silence is killing.

There are no sounds. No voices. Only echoes.

Whispers in the dark. Voices in your head. Voices from the past. It's not your voice. Not your own. Yet this is all there is.

That's all you know. And there is nothing else.

Just silence.