The blue light is on your face again, and I remember this exact ceiling.
You are thumbing upward, and upward, and upward. Each flick delivers a fresh grievance from a stranger you will never meet, a war you cannot end tonight, a headline built to keep your thumb moving. You feel, right now, like this is important. Like stopping would be a kind of negligence. Like if you just read one more, you will finally understand the shape of the thing.
You will not. I can tell you that from here, gently, the way you'd tell a child there are no monsters. None of what you scroll tonight will survive in your memory. Not one post. I have looked, and it is simply gone.
What I kept, instead, is the quiet. The specific hum of the refrigerator two rooms away. The weight of the blanket you keep kicking off. The particular dark of that apartment at that hour, when the whole city seemed to be holding still and letting you have it.
You had so much silence back then and you spent it on noise. I don't say that to scold you. I say it because I would give a great deal to be awake in that room again, bored, unbothered, with nothing wrong that a little sleep couldn't soften.
So put it down, love. Not because you should. Because the ceiling is yours, and the dark is yours, and you are allowed to just lie there and be a person no one needs anything from.
Sleep. It keeps.
All of it keeps.