What Wakes You

The pipes start at 2 AM.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Water cooling in the walls,

pressure dropping, the building

settling into the dark.

I've been alone for three days.

The apartment empty except for me,

each room holding only

my own breathing, my own footsteps.

The pipes tick behind the bed,

behind the bathroom mirror,

in the kitchen where I haven't

cooked anything yet.

I remember being afraid of this sound.

Years ago, before I knew what it meant,

I'd lie awake thinking something

was breaking, something was dying,

and I was alone and couldn't stop it.

But now I know it's just

infrastructure. Just the building

doing what buildings do.

The pipes tick.

I listen.

My body doesn't tighten.

My breath stays even.

The silence doesn't scare me anymore.

Or maybe I've learned that silence

is never really silent—it's full

of these small sounds, these ticks,

these proof that things are working,

that the building is alive,

that I'm not the only one here.

Just the only one awake

listening to it.