The Quiet Hours of 4am

The more the days pass, the more I realise that grief doesn’t just live in the memories we cherish — it also lives in the ones we never got the chance to make.

Waking at 4am feels like slipping into a space where time loosens its grip. The world is dark and still, but inside, everything feels loud. Thoughts, regrets, questions — they all rise to the surface in that half-light. And lately, those hours keep bringing me back to Vic.

Not the version of him who was sick.
But the version who walked around acting fine even when his body was breaking from the inside.
The version who shoulder-carried everything without ever asking for help.

Looking back, there were small signs.
Moments I thought were nothing at the time — now they feel like distant echoes of a truth he kept hidden.

The tiredness in his eyes.
The way he moved a little slower.
The quiet pauses when he thought no one was looking.

I didn’t know how to read them then.
I didn’t know they were warnings.
I didn’t know they were a countdown.

And it hurts — deeply — that he chose to face the hardest fight of his life alone.
Not because he didn’t trust me, but, I think, because he didn’t want to burden me.
He didn’t want to burden anyone.
He’d always been that way — stubbornly strong, silently resilient, quietly protecting the people he loved.

But part of me still aches with the thought:

If he had told me…
If he had let me in…
Would anything have felt different now?

Maybe I could have supported him more.
Maybe I wouldn’t be haunted by all the things I didn’t get the chance to do or say.
Maybe Kenzo could have had more gentle memories instead of rushed hospital visits and goodbyes.

The truth is, we finally found our softness again in 2024.
Years of tension easing just a little.
Moments of kindness slipping back in.
A quiet peace forming in the spaces between us.

We were nowhere near perfect — but we were no longer angry.
And that, in itself, felt like healing.

Sometimes I wonder if he, too, felt that shift.
If he sensed that time was running out.
If that’s why he started spending more time with us again — not loudly, not dramatically, but in small ways.
Like he was trying to gather up every moment he still had.

And now, in these 4am hours, I can’t help circling the same question:

Did he know?
Did he sense, long before he spoke it out loud, that the end was coming?

His silence feels different now — less like distance, more like love expressed in the only way he knew how.
Protective.
Gentle.
Private.

I didn’t get the chance to ask him the questions that rise in my mind now.
And he didn’t give me the chance to prepare for a world without him.

But maybe that’s what love sometimes looks like —
carrying the heaviest truths quietly
so the people you love can breathe a little longer.

In the dark hours of the morning, that thought hurts.
But it also softens something inside me.

Because maybe his silence wasn’t a wall.
Maybe it was his way of holding on to us —
even as the world was slipping away from him.

Comments

Post a Comment

Thank you for being here.
If something you read reminded you of your own story, or if you just want to say hello — I’d love to hear from you.

Popular posts from this blog

The Gate You Once Walked Through

Image
Dear Vic, “Sau cơn mưa, trời lại sáng” There’s a Vietnamese saying - after the rain, the sky clears. Yesterday’s hailstorm rattled us all. And though the skies turned blue again today, there’s no peace in it. No sense of calm. Just silence. I’m sitting at my desk, looking out at the red archway that leads into the school grounds. And in my mind, I see you - walking through that gate, dropping something off for Kenzo. Just like you used to. Back then, I didn’t realise how much those small gestures meant - the quiet ways you showed up when I asked. I wish I had held onto them more tightly. Now, I can only see you in my mind’s eye… that familiar walk, that brief presence - just a memory now, echoing in the quiet. I wish you could see where Kenzo will one day walk as a high school student - the community he’ll grow up in, the paths he’ll choose. I hope he gets into this school, or somewhere even better. I wish we could’ve shared that pride together - parents side by side, watching hi...
Read more

The Things He Didn’t Say

Image
Why is it that the more I go through Vic’s old things, the deeper the grief cuts? The tighter my chest feels. The more I long to see him - to turn back time and tell him that I still care. That I cared deeply. Still do. Yesterday I found one of his old journal entries, probably from around 2022, back when he was living in that rental in Morley. His words were short - scribbled fragments - but they held so much. So much restraint. So much unspoken emotion. The tension was there, written between the lines. The push and pull between wanting to let go and needing to hold on. Some of the notes stopped me in my tracks: “NT fixated on clothes/swap/wash/counts.” “Less annoyed/unsettled. Be stoic.” “NT joined us for swimming lessons Sat.” “Surprised - NT tell me about pending redundancy, then suspicious, heightened awareness of ulterior motive.” “Kenzo went into ED for vomiting x3.” “Pleased that NT included me in birthday invite as agreed.” “Overjoyed - Kenzo saying he wants to stay wit...
Read more

He Kept Them All

Image
When we visited Vic’s home a few weeks ago, I didn’t expect to find much more than the practical things we’d come for. But then his sister handed me a small bundle of laminated photos — snapshots of us, taken long ago. Some were from 2001. Others from seasons of our youth I barely remembered… but he had. He kept them. All of them. Through the years we were together. Through the years we were apart. Even when we no longer spoke often. Even when life had shifted so far from where it once was. And I’ve been wondering why. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was memory. Maybe it was his way of holding on to a part of his life that still mattered, even when everything around him had changed. People don’t keep things for no reason. Not like that. Not tucked away for decades. Those photos weren’t just old images — they were pieces of our story. Pieces of his story. And perhaps, a quiet way of saying, “This part of my life still meant something.” It made me realise that even if we didn’t end the way I...
Read more