You built her before you found her. Assembled her from loneliness and nerve endings. She walked into a bar at 2:22 AM, sat two stools down, ordered a vodka tonic, and you thought there.
She existed before she existed. And the version you loved was never the one who showed up.
2:22 AM alternates between his chapters and hers, tracing a breakup from the night of the split through three months of its aftermath. The reader inhabits both bodies. Loyalty becomes impossible. His grief turns into language. Hers refuses to. He describes her in rapturous catalogues. She can no longer remember her own face without his gaze on it.
She texted him. He never replied. He wrote her a letter. He never sent it. The distance between two people who shared a bed for years turns out to be measured in the things they almost said.
The novel lives in the exact moment one becomes the other.