My little gingerbread house

I put a bid on a little bungalow. It's what my mother would call a "poopsie" house. It's just about as much house as Shawn and I could handle. And it, the bid, expired at 12am last night. It's now a full 12 hours later and I haven't heard a peep from them. Not one little noise that would let me know either way.
I'm trying really hard not to be sad about this. I know as much as anyone what this market is, how strange and awful it could be, and I don't get my hopes up about any part of the process. Hell, my condo was on the market for two and a half months before it sold. In a market where places get into huge bidding wars. you don't get excited about any part of it, and you certainly don't fall in love with places knowing that you can be outbid at any moment.
But, this is my house. It's mine. I knew it the moment I first saw it, and was ready to sell my first born for it. I hadn't even stepped foot inside. It's full of magic and was meant for me. I'm crying so much right now, even as I type this. God, it's just a house. But it's mine. Why don't they call?