The ceiling hasn't
changed since you looked
at it three hours ago.
Same crack in the
corner, same faint shadow
from the streetlamp. Your
body is heavy with the
kind of tired that sleep
somehow refuses to touch.
The clock ticks. Each
second feels louder than
it should.
Outside, the city has
gone quiet — even the
sirens have given up for
the night. A car passes
somewhere, its headlights
sweeping across the wall
like a slow wave, then
gone.
You exhale, not because
you've found peace, but
because fighting it takes
too much energy. The
darkness around you isn't
hostile. It's just...
there. Waiting, like you
are.
Maybe rest doesn't always
mean sleep. Maybe lying
here, breathing, is
enough for now.