You are my daily dose of 9 pm.
Not in the way medicine is taken out of routine, but in the way a heart quietly waits for something it cannot function without. A small hour in the evening that carries the weight of my entire day.
At 8 pm, the panic begins.
It’s the hour where everything suddenly feels urgent. I have to be home by then. I rush through unfinished tasks, tie loose ends, close conversations, and check the time more often than I check my breathing. My mind runs ahead of me, already anticipating the moment your name will appear on my screen. I need to be available. I need to be ready. Nothing must interrupt the one moment I wait for every day.
Because if I miss it, it feels like missing you.
By 8:30 pm, the anxiety softens into excitement. Somewhere, I know your alarm has gone off. Somewhere, you’re getting ready for work, sitting down in front of your screens, preparing for another shift that keeps you miles away from me. It’s strange how something as simple as an alarm clock can make my heart lighter. That small sound means we are getting closer to the moment we meet again—through pixels, through signals, through whatever strength the internet can give us.
And then 9 pm arrives.
The world could be loud, the connection could be terrible, and the video could freeze every few seconds—but none of it matters. Because at that moment, I hear your voice. I see your face illuminated by the glow of your double-screen computer, the only light in the room while you juggle conversations with customers and the responsibilities of your job.
You’re busy. You’re distracted. Sometimes the call cuts. Sometimes the audio lags.
But you’re there.
And that is enough.
Nine in the evening has become something sacred to me. It is the hour where distance loosens its grip, where exhaustion fades into the background, where the long hours of waiting suddenly make sense. It is the small pocket of time where the day finally gives me you.
So every night, I wait for my daily dose of 9 pm.
And somehow, that is enough to carry me through another day of waiting.
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