Long night

On a long, empty country road, the night feels thick with quiet and a kind of heavy stillness that presses down on the soul. The sky is dark, but not just because of the late hour—it feels like the weight of everything inside is pulling the stars away. The headlights cut through the shadows, but they don’t bring much comfort. Inside the car, there’s the faint clink of a bottle against the seat, a companion for the lonely miles ahead.

The driver’s hands grip the wheel tightly, knuckles pale, eyes fixed on the road but lost in a swirl of memories and regrets. The sadness feels like a constant passenger, whispering reminders of what’s been lost or never found. Each sip from the bottle is a shaky attempt to dull the ache, but the alcohol only deepens the fog, making the night feel longer, the silence louder.

The road stretches on, empty and endless, much like the nights spent wrestling with the shadows inside. The loneliness is a heavy fog, wrapping around every thought, every breath. The darkness outside mirrors the darkness within, and the only sound is the steady rhythm of tires rolling over the pavement, a fragile heartbeat in the quiet.

Yet, somewhere beneath the weight of the sadness and the haze of the alcohol, there’s a flicker—a small, stubborn spark of hope. It’s faint and fragile, but it’s there, waiting for the dawn to break through the night and bring a chance for healing, for light to return to the heart. Until then, the late-night drive continues, a journey through the pain, searching for a way out of the darkness.