I stayed awake all night again.

 

Not on purpose. At least not at first.

 

The evening slipped into midnight, midnight into one, and before I knew it, the numbers on the clock had become less about time and more about company. A silent witness. 12:47. 1:36. 2:18.

 

There is something strange about being awake when everyone else is asleep. The world feels abandoned in the gentlest way. No texts. No obligations. No one asking anything from you.

 

The television glows from the corner of the room, washing everything in silver light. Faces appear and disappear across the screen, speaking to no one. The volume is low enough to blend into the background, like rain against a distant window.

 

The air conditioner breathes steadily.

 

The refrigerator answers with its familiar hum.

 

Together they fill the room with a kind of white noise that feels almost maternal, as though the apartment itself is trying to lull us to sleep.

 

Jean is finally asleep.

 

A few hours ago, her hands couldn’t find a place to rest.

 

Thoughts arrived too quickly to be spoken aloud.

 

The room felt crowded by things neither of us could see.

 

So she came over.

 

Now she sleeps beneath a borrowed blanket while Ramen keeps watch from the crease of her knees, and the storm that followed her here seems to have settled somewhere outside the window.

 

Not every act of love is a grand one.

 

Sometimes it’s an unlocked door.

 

A glass of water.

 

A couch that becomes a bed.

 

The quiet promise that nobody has to be alone with their thoughts tonight.

 

The room smells faintly of paint and laundry detergent and the sweet earthiness of weed lingering in the air. A mug with the ghost of morning tea sits on the counter. My water tastes cold and metallic from sitting too long beside the bed.

 

I’m writing.

 

The keys click softly beneath my fingers.

 

The moony slips through the edges of the blinds and paints pale stripes across the floorboards.

 

Outside, a car passes.

 

Headlights drift across the ceiling like slow-moving clouds.

 

Then darkness returns.

 

I look around the studio.

 

At the paintings leaning against the wall.

 

At the blankets gathered in soft piles.

 

At the dog.

 

At my sleeping friend.

 

And I think there is something unbearably romantic about being needed in such an ordinary way.

 

Not grand gestures.

 

Not dramatic rescues.

 

Just a text sent.

 

A knock at the door.

 

A place to sit while your heart remembers how to slow down.

 

A place where someone leaves a lamp on for you.

 

The world can feel enormous when you’re frightened.

 

But tonight it has narrowed to this room.

 

To the hum of the fridge.

 

To the cold air drifting from the vent.

 

To the blue light of the television.

 

To one sleeping friend, one loyal dog, and the quiet comfort of knowing neither of them has to carry the night without company.