That night, I turned on the first episode just in the background. My back hurt, I was lying in a strange position with a cup of chamomile tea, and I wanted something... unobtrusive. I didn’t expect anything from the series. It was like a soft noise in the room. But by the third episode, I was already sitting with my knee bent, forgetting about the tea. And by the sixth, my hands were shaking. I watched the season finale standing. At half past one in the morning. Without makeup, with puffy eyes, and thoughts: “What am I even doing?”

What is it about them, these stories, that they cling to you like sticky shadows? Why can I read a book for a week, and devour a TV series overnight without blinking?

First of all, the pace. Television seems to be tuned to the beating of the human heart. It knows when to slow down, when to speed up, when to hit. One look from an actor can convey three pages of text. You don’t invent these people — they are already living, already breathing, blinking, smiling. Their emotions are not imaginary. They are real, physical.

Secondly, the sound. Music, intonations, the sound of rain outside the window, the crunch of bones or the click of a switch. It’s as if someone creates an entire reality for you and says: “Here. Right here. You don’t have to build anything — just trust.”

But that’s not even it. Not only that. I think that TV series are a new way of not being alone. They are like a company that you can turn off. Or turn on. Like a friend who speaks for you when you can’t utter a word. Especially on those evenings when it’s quiet, dull and a little painful inside.

I love books. They are real. But they require effort from you. They can’t be “in the background.” They pull you along — they require attention, concentration, a pause. And a TV series is like a blanket. Like a cookie. Like a familiar melody. It doesn’t demand, it gives. And sometimes — that’s enough.

There is one TV series that I watched three times. Not because it was incredibly good. But because it coincided. It coincided with my state, with my silence, with my inner fear. It filled the pauses. And, as strange as it may sound — that was important.

Maybe TV series don’t give depth. But they give comfort. Fast. Understandable. Soft. And sometimes — you want that more than meanings and prose.

That night I fell asleep at three in the morning. With the screen on. With the faces of heroes who have become closer to me than my neighbors. And perhaps this too is an experience. Not an intellectual one, but a human one. And it is no less valuable.