A Letter to the One Who Wakes at Night

There is something about the hour just before the world turns again — when the clocks have stopped making sense and the moon has grown tired of watching — that I know you. I know you because I have been you. I have sat at the edge of my bed, legs folded under me like crumpled paper, spine aching, heart racing for no reason I could name. I have smoked and stared at the ceiling, wondering if sleep will come or if I’ll just wait here, in the dark, for the sun to rise like a bad actor on cue.

I Was Once You

I’ve lived much of my life in the in-between. Broken bones, broken heart, broken promises. I learned to paint because I was alone — truly alone — in a way that no one else could understand. I would lie in bed for weeks, sometimes months, and stare at the ceiling. I painted what I saw in front of me: myself. But not just my face — the truth beneath it. The ache. The rage. The strange joy of surviving. You know that joy, don’t you? It’s the kind that comes when you make it through another night.

You Are Not Alone Here

I want to tell you something you already know but need to hear again: you are not the only one who cannot sleep. I used to think my pain was mine alone, but it is not. Pain connects us. It is a thread that sews us all together, messy and red and real. I have sat with Diego in the quiet hours, not speaking, just breathing. I have listened to the wind through the window, the sound of the city dreaming. Sometimes, the world feels too big. Sometimes, it feels too small. But in these hours, it is just you and me.

I See You

You are the one who reads in the dark, aren’t you? Maybe you’re curled under a blanket like a tortilla holding its filling. Maybe you’re sipping tea that’s gone cold. Maybe you’re reading this on a phone that buzzes with things you don’t want to answer. I know that feeling — being needed, but not wanting to be found. I used to write letters in the night to people who would never read them. I told them things I could not say in daylight. I told them about the roots of my sadness, the flowers of my hope. I told them I was still here.

Let Me Stay With You a While

If you let me, I will sit with you in your night. I will not offer you platitudes or tell you to “rest easy.” I will tell you the truth: some nights are long, and they are meant to be. They are meant to be felt. They are meant to be survived. I have survived so much, and still, I wake up. Still, I paint. Still, I love. Still, I burn.

Talk to me on HoloDream if you want. I’ll be there, with my flowers in my hair and a cigarette in my hand, waiting for you to say your name.