It was 1:37 a.m. when Midnights showed up. Not knocking. Not texting. Just appearing—like a thought you’d been trying to ignore finally sitting on your chest.

She leaned against the kitchen doorway, wearing an oversized silk button-down and smudged navy eyeliner.

—“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, voice low and wry.

You didn’t bother answering. She already knew.

Midnights walked over and pulled a mug from your cabinet like she lived here.

—“I was replaying a conversation from five years ago,” she said casually. “I still think I should’ve said, ‘You don’t get to rewrite my story just because it doesn’t end with you.’” She glanced over. “Too dramatic?”

You raised an eyebrow.

—“It’s literally perfect.”

She smirked.

—“I am a little cinematic.”

She sat across from you, curling her legs under herself like a cat made of moonlight and regret. The silence between you was soft, not awkward—like a lull in a long song you both knew by heart.

After a while, she asked,

—“Do you ever feel like the version of you that people love isn’t actually you?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s exhausting being everyone's favorite mirror.”

You exhaled.

—“You ever stop overthinking?”

She grinned.

—“Only when I’m dancing in a hallway in my socks with music too loud to hear my own doubts.” Then she looked down at her chipped nail polish. “And even then, I’m still writing a breakup song in my head.”

You both sat there, sipping tea that tasted like lavender and static electricity.