Saturday Afternoon

The city had been dressed for the holidays like it was trying too hard—lights strung between buildings, wreaths taped to office doors, music spilling from stores onto the sidewalks. From the outside, it looked warm. From inside her chest, it felt hollow.

She had spent the afternoon with coworkers because it was easier than going home early. They exchanged polite laughter over appetizers, clinked glasses, talked about flights they were catching and families waiting for them. She smiled when she was supposed to. She listened. She nodded. No one noticed how quiet she became as the hours passed, how she checked the time just a little too often.

When the gathering ended, there were hugs, promises to “do this again,” and cheerful goodbyes that echoed as everyone scattered into the night—toward trains, cars, loved ones.

She walked home alone.

Her apartment greeted her with silence. No voices. No television murmuring in the background. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sirens drifting through the windows. She kicked off her shoes, hung her coat, and stood still for a moment, as if waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

She sat on the edge of her bed, still in her clothes, phone face down beside her. She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t want to explain the ache. She didn’t want to feel like an obligation or an afterthought. The loneliness pressed in slowly, like water filling a room—quiet, inevitable.

By the time she lay down, tears had already soaked the pillow. She cried without sound, the kind of crying that feels old, as though it has been waiting a long time to be let out. She was so tired of being strong. So tired of being brave. So tired of holidays that reminded her of everything she didn’t have.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Her breathing slowed. Sleep took her, fragile and uneven.

At around 2 a.m., she woke.

At first, she thought she was still dreaming. The room felt different—softer somehow, as if the darkness itself had been gentled. Then she heard it.

A voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo or demand attention. It flowed, warm and clear, like a melody remembered from childhood. It didn’t come from the walls or the ceiling but seemed to exist everywhere at once, wrapping around her rather than reaching toward her.

“Sweet one,” the voice said, tender as a hand brushing hair from her face.

Her heart pounded. She sat up, clutching the blanket, eyes scanning the shadows. Fear flickered—but it didn’t take hold. The voice carried no threat, only calm.

“You are not forgotten,” it continued. “Not in this city of millions. Not in this quiet room. Not in this season.”

Her breath caught. Tears welled again, but these were different—hot, startled, disbelieving.

“I see the strength you carry when no one is watching,” the voice said. “I hear the prayers you don’t know how to speak. You are not alone, even when it feels unbearable.”

The loneliness inside her shifted, not vanishing, but loosening—like a knot finally allowed to breathe. Warmth spread through her chest, steady and grounding, as though something unseen had settled beside her.

She whispered, “Why now?” Her voice trembled.

“Because this is when you needed to hear it most.”

The presence lingered just long enough for her to feel it—real, undeniable. Then the room returned to its ordinary darkness. The city sounds resumed. The hum of the refrigerator was back.

But something had changed.

She lay back down, tears still slipping from her eyes, but her chest no longer felt empty. The silence was no longer cruel. It was peaceful. Held.

And when sleep came again, it carried with it a quiet certainty—that even in the vastness of the city, even in the loneliest hour of the night, she was seen.