Night is the hardest part.
During the day, I can distract myself school, screens, noise, people.
But when the world goes quiet, my brain turns into a haunted house.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly everything I've ever done wrong decides to play on repeat.
That one awkward moment from sixth grade.
That text I shouldn't have sent.
That look someone gave me in the hallway.
The stuff I said. The stuff I didn't say.
And just like that, sleep becomes impossible.
I toss and turn like I'm trying to escape my own head. My pillow feels like it's holding secrets I don't want to remember. My blanket feels too heavy. Or maybe that's just the weight of everything I'm carrying.
Sometimes I try breathing exercises.
Other times I scroll through my phone until my eyes burn.
I tell myself, "Just stop thinking."
But that's like telling fire not to burn.
At night, everything feels bigger. Lonelier. The silence isn't peaceful it's deafening. I start to wonder if everyone else is asleep because they're not like me. Because their brains don't do this. Because they're not broken like I feel.
I think about the future too much when I'm lying in bed.
Where I'll be. Who I'll be. If I'll ever be okay.
I build entire alternate lives in my head at 2 a.m. ones where I'm confident, happy, loved, understood. Then I wake up the next morning and realize I haven't moved at all.
Overthinking is insomnia's favorite toy.
And I'm just the kid who never learned how to let go of it.
I've learned that the most painful part of the night isn't the lack of sleep.
It's the feeling of being awake with no one to talk to and nowhere to put all the thoughts bouncing around like ping pong balls inside a locked room.
So I write.
Not for anyone else.
Just to survive the night.
Because sometimes, that's what it takes making it through the dark so you can try again when the sun rises.