The 2:00 a.m. Replay

There is a particular kind of anxiety that doesn’t show up during the day.

It waits.

It waits until the house is quiet, the lights are off, and there’s nothing left to distract you. Then it starts.

Not gently.

“1969.”

And I’m there.

Christmas. I hear what I said. Exact words. Exact tone. I see her face change. I see the moment it lands. I feel it again—immediately, completely.

There’s nothing to figure out.

Nothing missing.

Nothing unclear.

It’s not a memory.

It’s a replay.

Before I can get out of it—

My son’s teacher. Same thing. The words. The tone. The look. That small shift people make when something isn’t quite right anymore.

I know exactly what it was.

And then—

Yesterday.

The meeting.

Seven people. Five minutes—supposedly. It stretches. It always stretches. Everyone else talks easily. Stories. Updates. Pieces of their lives that seem to fit perfectly into the space.

And then there’s me.

Say something.

Not that.

Too much.

Too little.

Say something now.

No, not now.

You missed it.

It’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now it starts again.

Every word.

Every glance.

Every shift in posture.

Every tone.

Did they notice?

Of course they noticed.

Did that sound wrong?

It sounded wrong.

Why did I say that?

Why didn’t I say something else?

Go back.

I go back.

There I am, sitting there again. Hearing it again. Watching their faces again.

Change it.

No—too late.

Try again.

I go over it again.

And again.

Not to understand it.

Not to learn anything.

Just because it won’t stop.

I used to think this was normal. That everyone did this—went back over things, tried to get them right after the fact.

But this isn’t trying to get it right.

This is being held in it.

At 2:00 a.m., there is no distance.

1969 is now.

1998 is now.

Yesterday is now.

They stack. They overlap. They repeat.

And the worst part is—

It’s entirely possible no one else remembers any of it.

Which doesn’t help.

Because I do.

Eventually, I fall asleep. I always do.

And in the morning, it loosens. The edges soften. It becomes something that almost makes sense again.

Almost.

But I know it will be back.

Tonight.

Right on time.