Last night was one of those nights where sleep never really came. My body was tired, but my mind refused to rest. Memories I didn’t invite showed up anyway, one after another, loud and persistent in the quiet. Every time I closed my eyes, something else surfaced—old moments, old feelings.

I sit staring at a blank page, realizing I don’t have anything new to say because I’ve already spent the entire night reliving what’s been. There was no insight, no lesson neatly wrapped up—just exhaustion and a heaviness that lingers.

Some days, writing doesn’t come from inspiration or clarity. It comes from simply admitting that the night was hard, sleep was scarce, and the memories won.