The Hours That Aren't Mine

The world goes quiet, and I come alive— not in bold color, but in the soft grayscale of blinking lights and tired eyes. Everyone sleeps. The dishes are done, the baby's breath is steady, and silence finally fits like a sweater I've outgrown but can’t let go. I sit in the hush, stitching pieces of myself back together with words, with tea, with scrolling through dreams I’ve shelved for someday. It's not rebellion— not really. Just a whisper of the girl I used to be tracing outlines in the dark, hoping the night won’t end too soon. Because in these hours— borrowed, stolen, earned— I belong to no one but me.