Her kind of loneliness only appears under refrigerator light. Not over-emphasized loneliness. Nothing dramatic. No rain against the windows. No violin swelling in the background. Just a woman standing barefoot in an oversized T-shirt at 1am, staring into a fridge as if the answers might be somewhere behind the mustard.
The fridge purrs like it pays rent.
She is not hungry, exactly. Please note. Hunger would be simpler. Hunger could be solved with toast. Or leftover rice. Or that suspicious yogurt she keeps giving second glances because “expiry dates are more of a suggestion.” No — this is something blurrier. A craving without an object. The body asking a question the mouth cannot phrase correctly.
So she stands there.
One hand on the fridge door. One hip leaning against the counter like a tired auntie at a wedding. The cold light spills over her face, turning her briefly sacred. Refrigerator saints are very common, actually. They who are canonized nightly beside jars of pickles and half-cut lemons.
She surveys the shelves.
An onion.
Three eggs.
Butter soft enough to trust.
Cake from Tuesday pretending not to exist.
Interesting.
The cake knows she sees it. They are now in negotiations.
This is the hour where every emotion disguises itself as appetite. Suddenly you think you need chocolate, when really you need reassurance. Or sleep. Or for someone to say, “You’ve been carrying too much lately, haven’t you?” But instead, because life is both tender and ridiculous, you eat shredded cheese directly from the packet while blinking at the microwave clock.
1:07am.
A dangerous time for memory.
At 1am, the brain becomes a thrift store. Everything falls off shelves. Old conversations. Embarrassing moments from 2014. People you were almost in love with. Texts you should not reread but absolutely will. The soul loosens its buttons a little.
And still the fridge stays open.
Sometimes the light inside it feels kinder than the rest of the apartment.
Outside the kitchen window, the world is dark and withholding. But here? Here there are strawberries. Sparkling water. Sweet grape juice. 100% organic. Tiny reliable things. Homely little miracles lined quietly on shelves. Evidence that despite everything — despite bills, disappointments, awkward silences, unanswered emails, the unbearable parody of being alive — she had the foresight to buy grapes (alongside the 100% organic, sweet grape juice).
That has to count for something.
She tears a piece of cake with her fingers.
Cold cake at 1am tastes different than daytime cake. More honest. Less ostentatious. Daytime cake says celebration. Night cake says existence. Perseverance.
And truly, existence deserves frosting too.