Sleep had become a distant country, and Rey had forgotten the way.
It was 3:41 AM—again. The same hour he seemed to return to night after night, as if caught in a loop that even time had grown tired of. His body ached from stillness, not exertion, and his thoughts moved sluggishly, yet never stopped. The ceiling above his bed had become his map, every crack and shadow a landmark in the insomnia that defined his life.
But tonight felt different.
Not better, exactly. But… less heavy.
He lay on his side, watching the play of moonlight across the wall. The city was quiet, holding its breath. And so was he.
His illness, named and charted and explained by people with white coats and gentle voices, hadn't killed him. Not yet. But it had taken its toll. The chronic fatigue. The weakness. The tightrope walk of symptoms flaring without warning. For a long time, it had felt like the disease was writing his ending, one sleepless night at a time.
But something had shifted.
Maybe it was the way the air smelled tonight—cooler, sharper, touched with the faint scent of rain. Or the way he'd found himself noticing the stars more recently, like they were trying to speak. Or maybe it was that, despite everything, he still got up. Still boiled water. Still turned on music. Still wanted something.
That something kept him alive.
Rey swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his movements slow but sure. He padded to the kitchen, barefoot on cool wooden floors. The apartment was dim, lit only by the streetlight bleeding through his windows, but it felt less lonely tonight.
The teapot sat where it always did—blue porcelain with fine gold filigree, catching the light like it was made to hold starlight instead of water. He'd picked it up from a secondhand market two weeks ago, drawn to it without understanding why. Maybe because it looked like it belonged to a different world. One not governed by hospital charts and gray waiting rooms.
One where wishes still mattered.
He smiled faintly as he filled it, turning on the stove. The click of the burner, the rising whistle of the steam—it was a familiar rhythm. A quiet defiance against the night.
He didn't make tea because it helped him sleep. It didn't. He made it because it reminded him that he still had rituals. Still had a body capable of movement, hands that could hold, lungs that could breathe. That counted for something.
He took his mug and stepped onto the small balcony outside his bedroom window, the night air crisp against his skin. From here, he could see the lights of a bakery down the street still glowing soft in the dark. Someone else couldn't sleep either. The thought made him feel less alone.
Rey closed his eyes, the mug warm in his hands. Maybe he would sleep. Maybe he wouldn't. But he was alive, and somehow, that didn't feel like a curse tonight.
He let out a slow breath and whispered to no one, "I'm still here."
For the first time in months, that didn't sound like surrender.
It sounded like a beginning.