Lights off

The sky starts turning that deep blue, the kind that comes right before black. That’s usually when it begins.

I turn the lights off. Brush my teeth. Do all the little things that are supposed to prepare a person for sleep. The rituals are intact. I go through them perfectly. But nothing happens after.

The bed feels cold even under the blanket. The pillow remembers the weight of my head, but not the peace that used to come with it. I shift. Flip. Try the left side, then the right. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, watching a darkness that doesn’t blink.

Time starts to stretch. Ten minutes feel like thirty. Then it folds in on itself, and suddenly it’s two in the morning and I’ve done nothing except listen to my own breathing and the occasional passing car outside.

I reach for my phone, not because I need it, but because it reminds me other people exist. Most of them are asleep. Some posted hours ago. Some haven’t posted in days. I scroll until the light starts to sting. Then I put it face-down and close my eyes again.

The room doesn’t feel right. The silence is too sharp. Every sound becomes something it isn’t. Pipes settling. A wind outside. The soft hum of something plugged in. I notice everything when I’m like this.

I tell myself I’m just thinking too much. That if I let go of one thought, the others will follow. But they don’t. They stick around. Repeat themselves. Shift into new shapes. Suddenly I’m remembering things from years ago I thought I buried for good.

At some point I stop trying. I just lie there. Still. Not awake, not asleep—just… stalled.

I wonder if other people are up, too. Not the night owls. Not the ones working shifts. The quiet ones. The ones who don’t talk about this kind of thing during the day. The ones who smile when they’re supposed to. I wonder if they’re staring at their ceilings, too.

Eventually, the light outside starts to soften. Not the sun yet—just a hint. The promise of morning. I haven’t slept, but the world keeps moving.

I get up. Same way I always do. I fold the blanket. I brush my teeth again. I stand in the shower longer than I need to. I pick out clothes like it’s a normal day. I make coffee I won’t finish.

There’s something about being awake all night that makes you good at pretending during the day.