Midnight always looks louder from the outside.
Through glass, it becomes something else entirely . . . muted flashes, silent bursts of gold splitting open the sky, the kind of spectacle meant to be shared with everyone . . .
Inside, it’s quieter.
Some things don’t require confirmation.
Outside, the sky keeps performing. Inside, nothing is trying that hard.
There’s a kind of intimacy that never makes it into the noise. No audience. No witnesses. Just the quiet understanding of being chosen in a moment that doesn’t ask for proof. And somewhere just beyond the glass, beyond the light, there are people watching it all unfold from a distance.
Close enough to feel it. Not close enough to belong to it.
and midnight comes anyway.
It always does.