Sometimes night isn’t about sleep. I love the night because it nullifies all the worries of the day. Once I woke up in the middle of the darkness — not from a nightmare, not from a sound. I just opened my eyes and realized: I don’t want to sleep.

I walked barefoot around the apartment. I took an old blanket from the sofa. I made tea right in the silence — the water gurgled so loudly that it seemed like the whole house could hear it. I sat on the windowsill and looked at the empty street.

Before, if I couldn’t fall asleep, I would get cold — from thoughts. You lie there and tell yourself: “Fall asleep. It’s early morning.” Now I think: if you can’t sleep, it means that something inside is asking to be heard.

That night I sat with a mug, hugging my knees, and suddenly realized: I'm not afraid. I'm not cold. Everything that was left unsaid dissolved somewhere in the steam from the tea.

Since then, if I wake up in the middle of the night, I no longer get angry. Let the night speak to me. Because sometimes it's at midnight that I hear myself best.