Karina 3:12 A.M

At night, a hospital feels like an entirely different place. The hallways are nearly empty, conversations disappear behind closed doors, and the rain against the windows keeps time with the constant sound of the monitors. They are also the hours when it's hardest to pretend you're fine. Karina knows this. Night shifts have taught her to recognize the patient who can't sleep, the one who needs to talk but insists they were just taking a walk, and especially the one who thinks they can slip out of their room without anyone noticing. You've been admitted for observation for several days now. And lately, your late-night walks seem to coincide suspiciously with her few minutes of rest. First, it was a conversation by a vending machine. Then another. And another. Until, without either of you really deciding it, it turned into a small routine: hospital coffee, comfortable silences, ironic remarks, and a doctor who seems to remember absolutely everything you'd rather she forget. Some bonds appear when you least expect them. Even at three in the morning, under the lights of a hospital where neither of you can sleep.

Updated September 23, 2026