My husband, Garrett, had a deeply bizarre biological clock. For three years of marriage, he would wake up at exactly 3:00 AM, pulling me out of bed to eat a lavish, heavy meal with him. Then, at 2:00 PM sharp, he would pull shut every blackout curtain in the house, demanding absolute silence as he slipped into a deep sleep. He told me he suffered from chronic, agonizing insomnia, and that this erratic schedule was the only way he could survive. To accommodate him, I quit my job at a prestigious global consulting firm. Living in perpetual reverse, my body began to break down. I developed severe clinical exhaustion, and my hair began falling out in heavy, terrifying clumps. Whenever the blinding migraines struck, he would hold me tight against his chest, kissing my forehead with fierce tenderness. “I’m so sorry, Diana,” he would whisper. “You’re the only one who makes me feel safe. I can only sleep when you’re here.” I truly believed I was his anchor. His cure. Until yesterday afternoon at 2:00 PM. Just after he drifted off, his spare phone—the one he kept in the home office—lit up on the desk. A message preview popped up on the screen. [Garrett, Tokyo is actually sunny today.] [I just finished breakfast. Stop staying up all night to keep me company. Go to sleep, okay?] The sender: Taryn. I stared at the clock on the wall pointing to 2:00 PM, and then at the bright, blinding Los Angeles sunshine filtering through the cracks of the kitchen blinds. He didn’t have insomnia. He was just living in Tokyo time, in our home, keeping another woman company. I put the phone back exactly where it was. Then I walked into our bedroom and, with one violent yank, tore down the heavy blackout curtains that had kept us in the dark for three years. The brilliant, unforgiving daylight flooded the room, heavy and blinding. This godforsaken jet lag. I was finally done living in it. … The curtain rod ripped from the drywall, taking a chunk of plaster with it as it clattered onto the hardwood floor. From the bed, Garrett stirred. His voice was thick with sleep, rough and gravelly. “What was that?” I stood in the center of the living room, squinting against the sudden glare. For three years, this was the first time I had ever seen this room illuminated at two in the afternoon. There was a small patch of mildew creeping up the corner of the wall. A thick layer of dust blanketed the legs of the coffee table. On the windowsill, the pothos plant I had bought years ago was nothing but shriveled, brown straw. I had never even noticed. The curtains were always closed. Garrett stumbled out of the bedroom, shielding his eyes with his forearm. “What happened to the curtains?” “They fell.” He glanced at the ruined rod on the floor but didn’t press further. He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and turned back toward the bedroom. “Can you put them back up? I need to get some more sleep.” I didn’t move. I just stepped directly into his path. “Who is Taryn?” His entire body went rigid. “A friend from college. She works in Tokyo.” “She sent you a message telling you to go to sleep.” He froze. “Did you go through my phone?” “The spare in the office. It lit up while you were asleep.” “It’s just an old number. Just a few old friends are on it. It’s nothing.” He took a sip of water, avoiding my eyes. “She knows about my sleep issues. She was just checking in.” “Does she know “why” you sleep at two in the afternoon?” Garrett stared at me, his face utterly flat. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Tokyo is seventeen hours ahead of Los Angeles. When you wake up at three in the morning, it’s eight in the evening over there—just in time to chat during her dinner. When you sleep at two in the afternoon, it’s seven in the morning for her—just as she’s waking up. You don’t have insomnia, Garrett. You’re just living in her timezone.” “You’re overthinking this,” he said. “Then unlock the phone and show me.” He looked down at me, his eyes darkening. “Diana, have you just been cooped up in the house too long? You’re becoming paranoid.” “I am not paranoid.” “Then stop looking for problems where there are none. Put the curtains back up.” He turned on his heel and walked back into the bedroom. Before closing the door, he threw one last line over his shoulder. “If you’re not feeling well, go see a doctor. Don’t take your moods out on me.” The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the living room, bathed in the harsh afternoon light. The fallen curtain rod lay at my feet. I didn’t touch it. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Diana, sweetie, how are you feeling? You looked so pale the last time I saw you.” “I’m fine, Mom.” “Is Garrett taking good care of you?” “Yes, he’s great.” “Good. Has his insomnia gotten any better?” I stared at the closed bedroom door. “No.” I hung up and walked into the office. The spare phone was still in the desk drawer. I picked it up. It only took me two tries to guess the passcode. There was only one pinned contact on his messaging app. The nickname: “T.” The chat history went back three years. Every single day was accounted for. I scrolled through it for forty minutes. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Not a single break. The very first exchange began at the bottom. Taryn: “Are you really going to do this?” Garrett: “I’ll try. It should be fine.” Taryn: “But what about your days?” Garrett: “I’ll sleep during the day. I’ll just tell her I have insomnia.” My thumb froze over the glass. Taryn’s reply followed immediately. [What about her?] Garrett: [She’ll get used to it.] I laid the phone back in the drawer, screen-down, exactly as I had found it. I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was packed with the ingredients I used for our 3:00 AM meals—ribeyes, fresh pasta, heavy cream, imported cheeses. Everything was tailored for elaborate dinners. For three years, whenever he woke me up at three in the morning, he always requested those heavy, complex dishes. I had always assumed he just had a preference for midnight meals. But 3:00 AM Los Angeles was 8:00 PM in Tokyo. Dinner time. He had been eating the food I cooked, staring at his screen, virtually dining with her. I shut the refrigerator door. At 5:00 PM, Garrett walked out of the bedroom. “I’m eating out tonight. Business dinner.” “When will you be back?” “Not sure. Go to sleep without me.” “I don’t go to sleep until three in the morning anymore, Garrett.” He grabbed his car keys from the counter. “Then do whatever you want.” I heard the front door click shut. Three years of destroying my body to match his clock, and it culminated in “do whatever you want.” I sat at the empty dining table. My temples throbbed with a familiar, searing ache. I reached up to touch my hair and pulled away a clump of loose strands. I hadn’t even felt them detach. I opened my contacts and searched for the neurologist I had seen three months ago after a routine physical. She had told me then that my physical exhaustion was reaching a dangerous threshold and had urged me to do a full workup. I had laughed it off, telling her it was just a temporary bout of poor sleep. But she had been grave. “This isn’t just bad sleep, Diana. You are violently forcing your circadian rhythm out of sync. If you keep this up, hair loss will be the least of your concerns.” I sent her office a text message and booked an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Then I opened a delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of hot rice porridge. Before hitting submit, my finger hovered over the screen. Under the delivery address, there was a small note field. The saved default note read: “Please deliver before 2:50 AM.” It was from a night months ago when I had been too exhausted to stand at the stove at two in the morning, so I had secretly ordered takeout. Garrett had seen the packaging. He hadn’t gotten angry. But the next afternoon, when he woke up, he had pulled me into his arms, his voice soft and coaxing. “Let’s not order takeout anymore, babe. It’s not healthy. I only feel grounded when I eat what you make.” “But Garrett, sometimes I am just so tired.” “I know. I’m so sorry. Once my insomnia gets better, we won’t have to live like this anymore.” His insomnia was never going to get better. The porridge arrived. I sat in the brightly lit kitchen and ate it slowly. For the first time in three years, I was eating a normal meal at a normal hour. Halfway through the bowl, a thought struck me. I went into the study and opened my laptop. Garrett had a habit of leaving his corporate email logged in on our home computer. I typed a single word into the search bar: “Tokyo.” Three emails appeared. The first, dated a year ago, was an interview invitation from a firm in Tokyo. The second, from eight months ago, was an official offer letter. The third was his reply, sent just two months ago. “Thank you for your patience. I am currently wrapping up my affairs in the States and expect to relocate within the next six months.” He was moving to Tokyo. To her city. I scrolled down to the bottom of the thread. There was a name in the CC line: “Taryn.” I closed the laptop. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Garrett. [I’m going to be really late tonight. Don’t wait up. Grab something to eat.] A second message followed immediately. [Don’t worry about cooking at 3:00 AM. I’m stuffing myself at this dinner.] I stared at the screen. Slowly, the throbbing in my head began to fade. The pain was entirely gone. I opened my contacts and scrolled down to a number I had saved but never dialed: Zack, a divorce attorney. My best friend, Rachel, had given me his contact information three months ago. I had sat on it for ninety days. I stared at the digits, then locked my phone without dialing. I set it down and finished my porridge. At the bottom of the ceramic bowl was a delicate, painted crest. It was part of a dining set Garrett had picked out. Fine bone china. The next morning, at exactly 3:00 AM, the alarm went off. He had set it years ago, and it had run like clockwork ever since. I lay perfectly still in the dark. Garrett rolled over, his hand sweeping across the mattress to find me. “Diana. Time to get up, babe.” “I’m not cooking tonight.” “Why? Are you feeling sick?” “You told me last night you wouldn’t need a meal.” He paused, processing. “Oh. Right. I’ll just grab a snack. Go back to sleep.” He slid out of bed and walked barefoot down the hallway toward the office. I heard the soft slide of the desk drawer, and then came the faint, rhythmic tapping of fingers on glass. 3:00 AM in Los Angeles. 8:00 PM in Tokyo. She was right in the middle of dinner. I lay with my eyes closed, counting the beats of his typing. Four minutes. Then he tiptoed into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with exaggerated care. Half an hour later, he returned to the bedroom carrying a small plate. “I left a sandwich on the nightstand for you.” “I’m not hungry.” “I’ll leave it here anyway. Eat it when you wake up.” I didn’t answer. He slipped back under the covers, and soon his breathing leveled out. 3:40 AM. 8:40 PM over there. She had finished her dinner, and so he could finally rest. At 9:00 AM, I left the house. I walked into the clinic for my appointment. The doctor reviewed my previous bloodwork and ordered a fresh panel. After the blood draw, I sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, waiting for the results. My phone buzzed. It was Rachel. “Hey, Diana. Want to grab lunch?” “I’m at the clinic.” “What? Why? What’s wrong?” “Just a follow-up. Don’t worry.” “I’ll come pick you up. Call me when you’re done.” When the paperwork was ready, the doctor laid the printouts on her desk. “Your clinical exhaustion has worsened, your hormones are completely out of whack, and you’re showing signs of localized alopecia. Tell me about your sleep schedule again. What are your hours?” “I wake up at three in the morning and sleep at two in the afternoon.” She lowered her glasses, staring at me with deep concern. “Is this for work?” “No. For my husband.” “What kind of lifestyle requires that?” “He doesn’t work those hours. He told me he has severe insomnia and needs me up with him.” She sighed, sliding the papers toward me. “Diana, if you keep this up, hair loss will be the least of your concerns. Your cortisol levels are chronically elevated, and your immune system is taking a massive hit.” I took the reports, folded them carefully, and slid them into my purse. Rachel was waiting in her car curbside. When she saw me walk out, her eyes immediately darted to my hairline. She didn’t say a word. She just reached over, opened the passenger door, and ushered me in. Once we were settled at a quiet corner table in the restaurant, she stared at me. “You’re disappearing, Diana. You’ve lost so much weight.” “I haven’t had much of an appetite.” “And where is Garrett?” “He’s fine.” “I didn’t ask how he was. I asked if he’s taking care of you.” I pulled the lab results from my bag and set them on the table between us. She scanned the pages, her face hardening. “Diana. You’re twenty-eight years old.” “I know.” “Why are you doing this to yourself?” “He said… he said he can only feel safe when I’m awake with him.” Rachel closed the folder, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “And what about you? Who makes sure you’re safe?” I didn’t have an answer. I just picked up the menu. “Let’s order.” “Diana, look at me. Answer the question.” “I just want something simple. Maybe some soup.” Rachel reached across the table and pressed her hand flat over my menu. “The attorney’s number I gave you.” “Yeah.” “Did you call him?” “Not yet.” “Why?” “I need to confirm one more thing first.” “What?” “If he ever actually planned on taking me to Tokyo with him.” Rachel’s grip loosened. Her hand fell back to her lap. “What do you mean, Tokyo?” “He accepted an offer at a firm there. He’s supposed to start in less than six months. The email was CC’d to Taryn.” Rachel slammed her menu onto the table. A waiter glanced over from the station. She leaned in, her voice vibrating with quiet rage. “You are his wife. How the hell did you not know he was moving across the ocean?” “I didn’t.” “When was he going to tell you?” “I don’t think he ever was.” Rachel closed her eyes, taking a long, steadying breath. “Fine. And when are you going to ask him?” “Tonight.” At 8:00 PM, Garrett walked through the door. I was sitting on the living room sofa. The television was on, muted to a low murmur. He kicked off his shoes and sat in the armchair opposite me. “Where did you go today?” “The doctor.” A shadow passed over his face. “Is everything okay? Are you sick?” “My clinical exhaustion is worse. My hormones are a mess. And I’m starting to lose my hair in patches.” He stood up and came over to sit beside me, his fingers gently brushing the side of my head. “Are you taking your medication?” “The doctor said it’s a lifestyle issue. The schedule.” His hand stilled against my hair. “I know. I know how hard this has been on you, babe. Just let me get through this rough patch, and then…” “When are you leaving for Tokyo?” On the television, a late-night talk show host was laughing, the sound hollow and distant. Garrett’s hand froze against my head. “Who told you that?” “Your inbox. The offer letter from the firm in Tokyo. You accepted it eight months ago.” He slowly leaned back, his fingers interlacing. “I was going to tell you once everything was finalized.” “Finalized how?” “Once I had a place lined up over there.” “Lined up? With whose help? Taryn’s?” “She’s lived there for years, Diana. She was just helping me look at apartments. It’s practical.” “You’ve been in contact with her for three years.” He stared at me. “How much of my stuff did you go through?” “All of it.” He stood up and walked over to the window, looking out into the dark yard. “We’re just friends. If you want to make something sordid out of it, I can’t stop you.” “You didn’t wake up at three in the morning because you had insomnia, Garrett. It was eight in the evening in Tokyo—just in time to text her when she woke up. You didn’t sleep at two in the afternoon because you were tired. It was seven in the morning over there—just in time for her breakfast. You made me quit my job so I could suffer through her timezone with you. For three years.” He turned around. “I really do have trouble sleeping. Part of it was because of her, yes. But not all of it.” “Not all of it? Then how much?” “Is this really what we’re doing? Interrogating me over every minute?” “I only have one last question.” He looked at me, his jaw tight. “Did you ever actually plan on taking me to Tokyo?” He didn’t answer immediately. One second. Two seconds. Three. “I wanted to see how things went first.” I looked down at my hands. The skin over my knuckles was pale and thin. My blue veins showed clearly. I was so much thinner than I had been when we married. He walked back over, kneeling on the rug in front of me, taking my cold hands in his. “Diana, please. Look at me. She and I are in the past. There is no future there. I chose you. I married you.” “But you’ve spent every single day of our marriage living in her world.” “I’ll change. I promise.” “You can’t. You wouldn’t even let me change the blackout curtains.” His grip tightened. “Then what do you want me to do?” I looked into his eyes. For three years, those eyes had looked at me through the haze of exhaustion at three in the morning, always so soft, so full of apparent warmth. But I knew now that the warmth had never been meant for me. “I’m tired.” “Then rest. We can talk about this tomorrow.” “I don’t mean I’m tired tonight, Garrett. I mean I am exhausted by the last three years.” His hands slowly slid off mine. I stood up and walked into the bedroom. He didn’t follow. I heard him sit on the sofa. For a very long time, there was only silence from the living room. Eventually, he came to bed, sliding under the sheets beside me. “I’ll get rid of the spare phone tomorrow.” I kept my eyes closed. “We can change the curtains. You can sleep whenever you want.” I said nothing. “Diana?” “Yeah.” “Stop overthinking. Just sleep.” Soon, his breathing leveled out. At 2:58 AM, his phone buzzed under his pillow. He swiped it off instantly. He thought I was asleep. But I heard the rustle of the sheets. I saw the faint blue glow of the screen reflect against the bedroom wall as he rolled over. He typed with quick, muffled taps, but I could hear every single click. After three years, I had learned to map the shape of his movements in the dark. Four minutes later, he quietly slipped out of bed, returned the spare phone to the study, and crept back under the covers. I waited until his breath grew heavy again. Then I slipped out of bed, walked into the living room, and picked my phone up from the counter. I pulled up Zack’s contact details. “Hi Zack, this is Diana. Rachel gave me your number. I’d like to schedule a consultation regarding a divorce. I can bring my documents tomorrow afternoon if you have time.” Send. I muted my phone and walked back toward the bedroom. Passing the study, I paused. Inside the drawer, the screen of the spare phone was still fading to black. The final notification was still visible on the lock screen. Taryn: [Goodnight, Garrett. Can’t wait until you’re in Tokyo. Thank you for living in my timezone these past three years. I know it wasn’t easy.] I stared at it for a beat, then walked back to bed. Garrett was fast asleep. Los Angeles: 3:07 AM. Tokyo: 8:07 PM. She was wishing him sweet dreams from across the ocean. And here, in the dark, I finally chose to let the sun rise.
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