The Hum of the Fluorescent Tube

Dear Delyara, It is 3:12 AM, and the only sound in this entire corridor is the high-pitched, microscopic buzz of a failing fluorescent tube overhead. It flickers occasionally, casting a cold, institutional twitch across the pale linoleum floors. I’ve been pacing this perimeter for four hours, my boots making a dull, heavy thud against the ground. In this silence, you can’t escape yourself. There are no distractions out here, no social feeds to drown out the quiet panic that tells you time is slipping away. I look at my reflection in the dark glass of the fire doors and wonder if this is all I am ever going to be—the man who guards the night while others build their lives. I’m writing this down on a scrap paper clip sheet just to keep my hands moving, to anchor myself to something real before the exhaustion completely detaches me from reality.