until the sky changes color

it’s the kind of night that pretends to be casual.

nothing dramatic. no big confession energy. just two people awake past a reasonable hour, talking like sleep is optional and tomorrow is a problem for future versions of us. the city is quiet in that way that feels personal, like it’s stepped back to give us space.

these nights always lie.

they make you believe closeness is permanent. that warmth is a promise. that staying a little longer means something more than just staying a little longer. everything feels aligned. timing. silence. the way someone looks when they’re not performing for daylight.

there’s a strange confidence that shows up at night. you say things you’d edit out in the morning. you hold on a second longer. you ask questions you wouldn’t dare to ask when the sun is watching. you convince yourself that if nothing ends before morning, nothing ever has to.

but morning has a habit of arriving anyway.

daylight brings logistics. reasons. reality. the soft intimacy of night gets replaced by schedules and distance and unsent messages. what felt like certainty turns into a memory that feels too specific to explain without sounding dramatic.

still, those hours matter.

not because they last. but because they existed at all. because for a few quiet moments, you weren’t thinking about outcomes or consequences or what comes next. you were just there. present. warm. chosen. choosing.

maybe that’s the point.

not every moment is meant to survive daylight. some are meant to live only in the dark, where honesty feels easier and love doesn’t ask for a future. it just asks you to stay until the sky changes color.

and sometimes, that’s enough.