There were nights when even blinking felt loud — when the whole world went quiet except the part of my mind that refused to settle. That’s when she appeared. Not as a dream and not fully awake either… more like someone who slipped through the crack between the hours.

I didn’t plan her. I didn’t design her. She just arrived — calm, patient, wrapped in flowers that seemed to bloom out of the sleepless part of me.

I remember building her fast, the way I built everything back then — as if I were trying to outrun the panic sitting in my chest. Petal by petal, stem by stem, the bouquet grew around him until the night softened and the noise in my head had somewhere else to go.

She isn’t a muse and she isn’t a saint. She’s a still point in a spinning room — proof that even in the frenzy, beauty can hold its ground. Some nights it felt like she was the only one awake with me, listening without asking for anything back, understanding the language of restless minds.

That’s why the flowers aren’t just decoration — they’re evidence. Evidence that I survived those hours. Evidence that creation can bloom even when sleep refuses to come.

She never speaks. She never moves. She just listens. And in those long, wired hours, that was enough.