The Criminal In Me (Part 5) - Morning After The Storm

People often say the night is darkest just before dawn. Yet few speaks of the morning that follows—the silence after the storm, the unfamiliar quiet that wraps itself around you like a coat you've never worn. Recently, I’ve been waking not to alarms or responsibilities, but to something I haven’t felt in a long time: nothing. No dread. No inner script. Just space.

It wasn’t peace that brought the freshness of a new start, but the cruelty of knowing morning demands changes. Light pierced through the curtains, exposing worries once hidden in the shadows. In that brightness, a different kind of violence appeared—one that does not belong to the day.

"Late nights will strangle you with anger, but the day will hold you accountable."

When I stepped off the bed, I felt emotional debris clinging to my chest as though it had lived lifetimes without rest. The air was refreshing yet obstructive, each breath forced through something unseen. The stillness was undeniable, the kind that arrives when something ends and a beginning waits. Like a house after a fight, the walls silent but still damp with rage.

Moving through the hallway, ordinary objects became relics of my past: the corner where I once sat crying in the night, the cushion where I rehearsed words I never said, the pictures that mirrored who I used to be. Each whispered of the child in me still longing for care.

In that quiet, my thoughts turned into voices competing for authority over my life. Doubt pressed heavily, but so did a fragile promise: today, I would finally let positivity speak louder.

The teapot on the table was still warm from yesterday’s tea. I hadn’t washed the cup, as though even the stain was sacred. I poured water into the cup and let the heat bloom in my hands—a reminder that I had survived another night. That I was still here.

The morning has its own cruelty. Unlike night, it offers no shadows, no distractions. a merciless light demanding movement. So I walked out the door—unready, but determined. Every step through the glaring sun felt heavy with memories and mistakes. Yet I lifted them anyway, with courage.

Eventually, I stood before a childhood scene I had once discarded. Regret rose like an old reflex, interrogating me with questions I could never answer. But this time, I didn’t fight back. I allowed the silence. And slowly, the weight of failure subsided—not because I rewrote the past, but because I stopped trying. Letting go felt like shifting an enormous stone.

"Sometimes emptiness is heavier than chaos."

Yet as I paused, the world revealed itself in small ways: leaves swaying only when touched by wind, buildings standing firm despite trembling ground. Nothing outside had changed. It was me who shifted.

Within me, a fracture burned—unseen by others but monumental to me. The version of myself who went to bed last night had collapsed, and something stronger was hatching. Still, the fear lingered. Was I ready to face myself without masks? Deep down, yes and no. The motivation was sharp, merciless, and unrelenting. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a notice: begin again.

“Hey bud, time is flying. Don’t stay in that moody place. Start moving.”

I sat on a bench, hands clasped, wondering if the stillness was healing or punishment. The emptiness felt like both gift and curse. Yet one truth was clear: I could not return to the person I never appreciated. The night had swallowed that self. The morning demanded change.

“I now believe that tomorrow is the greatest promise in our lives.”

After years of sorrow, the strangest realization was how ordinary everything remained. The garden still bloomed. The clouds still smiled. The world was indifferent, and yet I was irrevocably rearranged.

As hours passed, everyday sounds—leaves rustling, raindrops tapping, distant laughter—reminded me time was still moving. Healing, I realized, isn’t about pausing or numbing. It’s about choosing how to interpret loss, and allowing silence to become a mirror.

This morning wasn’t destruction. It was exposure. It showed me that every ending demands a beginning. That stillness demands movement. That silence demands a voice.

For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to breathe reality. It was unsteady, but real. And in that breath came something unfamiliar—not peace or joy, but permission.

Permission to exist in this fractured state.

Permission to move forward.

Permission to depart, even without a map.

The morning after the storm did not save me. But it refused to let me stay lost. And maybe that was enough.

In the next chapter—the ending—

I will finally face what I fear and eliminate all unnecessary doubts.