I’m watching her sleep. She’s finally out, really out, after… I don’t even know how many hours it was tonight. Three? Four? The baby just screamed. Again. For hours. And she just kept going, kept trying. Changing, burping, walking, singing. All the things the doctor said. All the things our mothers said. All the things the internet said. I just sat there. On the couch. Watching. And now she’s asleep, and I’m just… here. Too tired to move, but too wired to close my eyes. My own little protest, I guess. I used to be good at this. The staying up thing. Years of it. When I was younger, I’d pull all-nighters for commissions, for ideas that just wouldn’t leave me alone. That painting, the one that almost made it big. The gallery showing, the money… Almost. Almost enough to not be here, I think. This whole life. This small house. This feeling of being stuck. I just wanted to paint. To create. To make something beautiful. Instead, I taught. Taught other people how to do it, while my own canvases gathered dust. And now… now I just watch. I feel like a ghost in my own house. Like I’m just taking up space, not really contributing. She works, she cares for him, she tries. And I… I just sit there, sometimes, wishing I was somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could just… breathe. Without the screaming. Without the worry. Without this crushing weight of knowing I could have done more. Should have done more. And now it’s too late. It’s always too late, isn't it?