I had a routine. A quiet ritual that I kept hidden, like a tender bruise I didn’t want anyone to touch. Every night, after the house settled into its deep, creaking silence, I’d retreat. Into the small, guest room. The one we rarely used.
He noticed it, of course. My disappearing act. At first, he’d just call out, “Night, love!” from the living room, assuming I was just turning in early. Then, he started finding me. Not in bed, but in that room. The door usually cracked open, a sliver of darkness spilling out. He’d peek in, see me under the heavy weighted blanket, eyes closed, headphones on.
“Still relaxing, huh?” he’d say, his voice soft, a hint of curiosity in his tone. He thought it was just relaxation. A way to unwind from the day. And I’d just nod, offering a weak, tight-lipped smile. “Just unwinding,” I’d whisper, my voice thick with something he couldn’t quite decipher. I needed him to believe it. I needed him to stay away.
Newly weds having an intimate conversation in their living room | Source: Midjourney
The truth was, it wasn’t relaxation. Not in the way he understood it. My ritual was precise. The room had to be utterly dark. No light escaping from under the door, no glow from any charging device. Pure, suffocating black. The weighted blanket, all twenty pounds of it, pressed down on me, a heavy embrace that both comforted and constrained. And the headphones. Always the headphones. They were my shield, my portal.
Inside the headphones, a specific track played. An hour-long loop. It started innocently enough. Gentle rain. Soft, ambient music. The kind that lulls you into a sense of calm. But for me, it was just the gateway. I’d lie there, letting the darkness consume me, letting the pressure anchor me. And then, as the ambient sounds faded, the real part of my ritual began.
It wasn’t peaceful. It was necessary. A descent.
He started asking more questions. “What do you listen to?” “Does it help you sleep?” “You seem so… still afterwards.” He was worried. I could see it in his eyes, the slight frown lines that appeared when he thought I wasn’t looking. I’d shrug, mumble something about white noise, about needing my space. I’d try to explain, but how could I? How could I tell him that my “relaxation” was the hardest thing I did all day? That it was the only way I could feel anything at all anymore?
Newly weds having an intimate conversation in their living room | Source: Midjourney
One night, he found me before I could fully retreat. He’d just finished a late call for work. He walked into the darkened hallway and saw the faint light of my phone screen reflecting off my face as I queued up my nightly track.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, coming up behind me. I jumped, startled, clutching my phone to my chest. “You alright?”
I nodded, turning away. “Just getting ready to unwind.”
He paused. “I was thinking… I could join you tonight? It sounds really nice, what you do. Dark, quiet. I could use some proper relaxation.”
My heart pounded. NO. I wanted to scream. I wanted to push him away, to protect him from what I did in that room. “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really not that interesting,” I stammered, my voice thin. “Just lying there. You’d probably find it boring.”
People at a bookstore with coffee shop. | Source: Midjourney
He chuckled softly. “Boring sounds good right now, babe. I’m exhausted.” He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on. Just for a bit. We can lie there together. Two tired souls.”
I couldn’t say no. Not without causing a fight, without raising more suspicion. He looked so earnest, so genuinely tired. He just wanted to connect, to share this quiet moment he thought was healing. My chest tightened with a cold dread. He had no idea.
I led him into the room. He navigated by touch, bumping lightly into the bed. I helped him get under the weighted blanket, lying beside me. The pressure settled over us both. He sighed, a sound of contentment. “This feels amazing,” he murmured, his hand finding mine under the blanket. “Like being hugged by the earth.”
I didn’t answer. I just slipped my headphones on. He looked at me, a question in his eyes.
“You’ll need these,” I whispered, holding out my second pair. He took them, confused but compliant, and placed them over his ears.
I pressed play.
Happy couple gazing into each other’s eyes | Source: Midjourney
The gentle rain started. The soft, ambient music swelled. He sighed again, nestling deeper into the pillow. I could feel his warmth beside me. He was relaxing. He thought this was peace.
I waited. For the music to fade. For the rain to become distant. For the silence to stretch and grow, until it wasn’t silence at all, but a pregnant hush.
And then it began. The true soundscape.
I felt him shift beside me. A tiny tremor. The soft, melodic strains of a lullaby started, so faint at first, almost imperceptible. It was our lullaby. The one we always sang.
Then, beneath the fading melody, came the hum. A low, rhythmic beep… beep… beep… It was faint, distant, but undeniable. The sound of a monitor. A hospital monitor.
His breathing hitched. I felt his hand tense in mine. The lullaby grew a little clearer, a fragile melody against the relentless beeping. The beeping was slowing. Beep… pause… beep… longer pause… beep…
Then, a sudden, sharp, flatline tone. A long, unbearable BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
A lonely older woman sitting in a room | Source: Freepik
And after that, the sound of small, desperate, gasping breaths. So tiny. So fragile.
I felt him flinch, a sharp, involuntary jerk that rattled the blanket. His grip on my hand was bone-crushingly tight. The gasps continued, each one tearing a new hole in the quiet darkness, each one a universe of pain.
Then, those breaths stopped.
Silence. A horrifying, complete silence, broken only by the persistent, unyielding BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. The single, unbroken tone.
And then, his own voice. Faint, broken, from the recording. “NO. NO, PLEASE.” Followed by a raw, guttural sob that ripped through the headphones, through my very soul.
I felt him gasp beside me. A choked sob escaped his own lips in the room. He tore the headphones off, frantic. His eyes, even in the absolute dark, seemed wide with horror. He looked at me, then back at the discarded headphones.
“What… what is this?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “What are you doing?”
I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping, tracing a path down my temple into my hair.
A wrecked car on the roadside | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t relaxation. It was reliving the last minute of our son’s life. Every single night.
The recording was from the baby monitor, placed beside his incubator in the NICU. I had forgotten it was there. And after… after he was gone, I found it. I found the last sound. And I kept it.
Because when I felt nothing, when the grief threatened to swallow me whole, this ritual—this agonizing, horrifying, beautiful ritual—was the only way I could feel him. The only way I could touch the edge of that unbearable pain, and know that it was real. That he was real. That we had lived it.
I wasn’t unwinding. I was suffering. And I needed to suffer, just for an hour, to make it through the rest of the night.
He just lay there, frozen, staring at me in the impenetrable darkness. His hand had fallen from mine. I could hear his ragged breathing. He had wanted to relax. Instead, he had just entered my private hell. And now, he was trapped in it with me.
His quiet sobs began to fill the room, echoing mine, finally understanding.
