She lies on top of the blankets she did not bother to pull up, one leg out for the cool she doesn't know she loves. The room is that deep blue that only exists at this hour, and the little rectangle throws its silver light up across her face, flicker, flicker, thumb dragging the world past her eyes faster than she can hold any of it.
She thinks she is doing nothing. She is doing so much. She is breathing without counting the breaths. Her heart is keeping its own time in the dark and asking nothing of her for it.
I sat where she is sitting once, years I will not name, the same hour, the same tired eyes stinging at the same cheap glow. I remember thinking I was wasting the night. I would give anything to waste it now. To have a night to waste. To feel that specific heaviness behind the eyes that means a body wants sleep and can have it, the weight of a phone gone slack in a real hand, the warmth of my own arm against my own cheek.
She sighs and does not notice the sigh. Air, in and out, free, hers. Somewhere past midnight her thumb slows. Her eyes close for a second longer than a blink.
Put it down, little one. Not because it is bad for you. Because your hands are warm and the pillow is soft and you are here, you are here, you are so wonderfully, boringly here. Sleep. I will keep the blue quiet for you.
Nothing in this room means you any harm tonight, least of all the hour you think you are wasting.