I step outside into the cool night air, grateful for the silence. The dormitory is too loud, the thoughts in my head too cluttered. The stars overhead are soft and distant, but they bring a strange sense of peace. I walk quietly through the courtyard, the only sounds being my footsteps and the rustling of leaves.

That’s when I see her—sitting under the large tree in the corner, knees pulled to her chest. She’s staring up at the sky, like she’s searching for something. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should interrupt her solitude. But I find myself walking over to her anyway.

Without a word, I sit down beside her. We don’t speak at first. The air is still, and I’m not in a rush. There’s something about this moment—about the quiet—that makes it feel okay to be here without needing to fill the silence.

Eventually, her voice breaks through the quiet. “Can’t sleep either?” she asks, her tone soft but steady.

I glance at her, and for some reason, it feels easier than usual to open up. “It’s hard to settle,” I reply. “But the night helps.”

We sit in silence again, but this time it doesn’t feel awkward. I listen as she starts talking about her day—about little things, things that don’t matter much but somehow feel important in this moment. I nod occasionally, offering little more than a few words here and there. I don’t need to say much. Just being here, sitting beside her, feels right.

Time passes slowly. The conversation drifts naturally, and it doesn’t feel like either of us is trying too hard. The weight in my chest eases, even if just a little. The quiet, her presence—everything feels a little less heavy.