I used to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling like it was a threat.
The clock would hit 11:42 PM. Then 12:27 AM. Then 1:09.
Every minute that passed was another punch in the ribs.
Because I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep.
But my body didn’t care.
Sometimes I’d pass out. Other times I’d drift and snap awake with my heart pounding.
And when I finally did sleep? I’d wake up groggy, bitter, and heavy.
Not just tired — hollow.
The worst part wasn’t the fatigue.
It was the thought that maybe I was just broken.
Maybe I was the type of person who would never feel rested again.
But that wasn’t true.
I didn’t need a therapist.
I didn’t need a melatonin bottle.
I didn’t need more screen blockers or a new pillow.
I needed to understand something most people never learn:
Sleep is not a clock. It’s an architecture. And mine had collapsed.