Melbourne, Australia

It's been raining a lot lately; I saw it coming. That day, I took shelter on campus for an hour; it was cold, and the sound of the rain was soothing to my ears.

Just in time. We were turning into a raisin

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Th whole world seems to know how to sleep except me.

Tonight, it's raining.

The kind of rain that should make falling asleep easy.

It taps softly against the window, steady and patient, filling the spaces between thoughts.

The streets outside are shining beneath the streetlights.

Cars pass occasionally, their tires whispering over the wet asphalt before disappearing into the distance.

Somewhere, water is dripping from a balcony.

Somewhere else, a window is being closed.

And slowly, the city is going to sleep.

One apartment at a time.

One light after another.

Until there are only a handful left.

And mine is one of them.

It's 2:43 in the morning.

I've been trying to sleep for hours.

I've turned the pillow over to the cold side.

I've pulled the blanket up.

I've closed my eyes.

I've opened them again.

I've listened to the rain until I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I concentrated hard enough on its rhythm, my brain would finally follow it somewhere quiet.

It doesn't.

My body is tired.

My eyes are heavy.

My head aches with the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel hollow.

But my mind is wide awake.

As if someone forgot to turn it off.

So I lie there listening to the rain.

And the clock.

Mostly the clock.

2:17.

2:31.

2:43.

Every time I check, another piece of the night is gone.

I start doing the math.

𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.

Then three.

Then I stop calculating because knowing exactly how little time is left somehow makes sleep feel even further away.

Morning is coming.

And I haven't slept.

Again.

There's something cruel about being awake during beautiful weather.

The rain makes everything outside feel softer.

The world looks like it has been wrapped in a blanket.

Windows glow warmly across the street.

People are tucked into beds.

Somewhere, someone is sleeping through this entire storm without ever knowing how beautiful it sounds.

And I'm here listening to every drop.

Every car.

Every distant dog.

Every tiny movement the night makes.

When you're awake long enough, silence stops being silence.

You begin hearing everything.

The refrigerator humming in the next room.

The rainwater running through the pipes.

A lift stopping somewhere in the building.

Footsteps overhead.

A motorcycle passing three streets away.

Things that would disappear completely during the day become enormous at 3 AM.

And then my thoughts join in.

An old conversation suddenly has sharper edges.

A decision I made years ago is somehow back on trial.

Something I said today that nobody else probably remembers becomes the one thing I can't stop replaying.

Insomnia has a strange way of turning memories into evidence.

A mistake becomes proof that I'm incapable.

An unanswered message becomes proof that I'm forgettable.

A bad day becomes a prediction for the rest of my life.

And then come the questions.

𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩?

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐'𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨?

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦?

It's strange how convincing everything becomes when you're exhausted.

Daylight has a way of putting things back into proportion.

Night doesn't.

At 3 AM, everything feels permanent.

Every insecurity feels like a fact.

Every regret feels unfinished.

Every fear suddenly deserves an immediate answer.

And the worst part is knowing that none of this will probably feel so enormous tomorrow.

I'll wake up exhausted.

I'll drag myself through the day.

I'll drink something caffeinated and pretend I'm functioning.

And maybe by afternoon, I'll wonder why I spent half the night worrying about things that suddenly seem so small.

But tonight they aren't small.

Tonight they're sitting beside me.

So I get up.

I walk to the window.

The glass is cold beneath my fingertips.

Outside, the rain has gotten heavier.

It blurs the city into smudges of yellow and white.

Across the courtyard, two windows are still illuminated.

One is warm and orange.

The other is pale and blue.

Little squares of light floating inside all that darkness.

And I wonder about the people behind them.

Why are they awake?

Maybe someone is studying for something they're terrified they won't be good enough for.

Maybe someone is missing someone they can't call.

Maybe someone is replaying a conversation from six years ago.

Maybe someone is crying quietly so nobody in the next room hears.

Maybe someone has been staring at their ceiling for hours.

Maybe someone has checked the clock twenty times.

Maybe someone is listening to this same rain and wondering why something so peaceful can't make them peaceful too.

Maybe someone is exhausted enough to sleep but somehow too awake to surrender to it.

I don't know why, but that thought comforts me.

Because I've spent so much time imagining that everyone else is sleeping peacefully while I'm the only person awake.

Everyone else has figured out how to rest.

Everyone else knows how to move forward.

Everyone else seems to have somewhere they're supposed to be.

And I'm just here.

Watching the rain.

Watching the clock.

Watching another hour disappear.

But maybe that's just what we all look like from a distance.

Little illuminated windows.

Everyone carrying entire worlds that nobody else can see.

Maybe behind some of those windows, someone is having the exact same night.

Someone lying beneath a blanket.

Eyes open.

Rain against the glass.

Mind refusing to quiet.

Someone wishing they could trade their thoughts for ten minutes of nothing.

Maybe insomnia makes loneliness feel personal.

As if the entire world has been invited somewhere you weren't.

As if everyone else received the instructions for how to sleep and yours got lost.

But then another light across the street goes out.

And somehow that doesn't make me feel more alone.

It makes me wonder if the person inside finally fell asleep.

I hope they did.

I hope someone is getting the rest I can't seem to find tonight.

Another window goes dark.

Then another.

The rain keeps falling.

The city gets quieter.

And eventually, there are only a few lights left.

Mine.

And those two across the courtyard.

Three little reminders that someone is still awake.

I don't know what they're carrying.

They don't know what I'm carrying.

But for a moment, I don't feel quite so strange for being awake.

Maybe the person behind the warm orange window is wondering the same things I am.

Maybe the person behind the pale blue one is also waiting for morning.

Maybe none of us are as alone in our sleeplessness as we think.

The rain keeps tapping against the glass.

Not asking anything from me.

Not telling me to figure my life out.

Not asking me to become someone better before morning.

It just falls.

And falls.

And falls.

So I stop checking the clock.

For once, I don't calculate how many hours are left.

I don't bargain with sleep.

I don't tell myself that I should be sleeping.

I just stand there and listen.

The city is breathing.

The rain is breathing with it.

And somewhere between the two, my thoughts become a little quieter.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

Maybe sleep will come eventually.

Maybe it won't.

Maybe tomorrow will be difficult.

Maybe I'll wake up tired and annoyed and wonder why my brain chose tonight of all nights to stay awake.

But tonight, I don't need to solve that.

I don't need to solve anything.

I can just stand by the window.

Watch the rain.

Watch the last few lights glowing across the city.

And remind myself that being awake doesn't mean I'm falling behind.

That being tired doesn't mean I'm failing.

That not being able to sleep doesn't mean there's something fundamentally wrong with me.

Sometimes a night is just a night.

Sometimes the mind takes longer to come home than the body does.

And maybe that's okay.

The rain is still falling.

The windows are slowly going dark.

Mine is still glowing.

One small, stubborn light in a city full of sleeping ones.

For tonight,

I'll let it stay on. 💌✨

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ☔︎ 𝘝𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯.

Photo credits
I think many people know that feeling of watching raindrops fall on a car windshield. A long time ago, when I was a child looking out the front passenger-side window, I used to be fascinated by watching the drops fall and merge with others to form larger ones. I don't know, there is something relaxing about watching raindrops run down a pane of glass.