The news of my father's new life turned my world upside down. Before, my sleeplessness was about the past; now, it was about the future. Every night became a "Silent Night" of staring at the ceiling, wondering how my father could sleep so soundly while I was drowning in the dark. The tiredness was a deep ache in my bones, but my heart was too loud to let me rest.
My hands were tired, and my mind was heavy with the weight of my studies. I did the work of two people, trying to fill the silence my mother left behind with the sounds of clinking plates and sweeping brooms. I was exhausted for dragging myself through a house that felt too big and too empty at the same time . But I always said ," it's alright . It's my duty to do household chores after my mom's. She had always trusted me . So I should do my best. I have to stay strong. "
I moved through the house like a shadow, scrubbing floors and preparing meals, my body aching for just an hour of rest. But rest was a luxury I couldn't afford. The moment the chores were done, I dragged myself back to my books. My head would throb, and the words on the page would blur behind my glasses, but I would pinch my arm and slap my face to stay awake.
"I can't fail," I whispered, my voice cracking in the empty room. "I can't fall behind.This is all I have ."
My exams were looming like a storm cloud. To anyone else, it was just school, but to me , it was the only thing I had left. I remembered her mother's voice - how she used to talk about the future, about her daughters standing on their own feet and earning their own way. My mother didn't want me to be a "sacrificed soul" trapped in a kitchen; she wanted us to be independent. I wanted to make it happen.
The exhaustion from the day's chores—the cooking, the cleaning —should have made me sleep. But my mind was a cage of memories I couldn't escape. I was trapped in an endless cycle: crying through the night, flipping pillows, and then waking up to serve a father who never noticed the redness in my eyes.While the house fell into a deep, rhythmic sleep, I sat at my desk, my eyes were burning behind my glasses. Since my mother's passing, sleep had become a stranger. Every time I dared to blink, the shadows of my mother's smile would flicker in my mind, followed immediately by the cold reality of her absence. Without the distractions of housework or studies, my mother's voice would echo in the silence—not as a ghost, but as a memory of a happiness that felt a thousand years away. Every laugh we shared and every "happy moment" we had together became a sharp needle in my heart.
I tried to stay quiet. I didn't want my father to hear the shattering of my soul from the other room. So, I buried my face into my pillow, muffling my sobs until my throat burned.
The tears came in waves that wouldn't stop. With trembling hands, I would flip the pillow over, seeking a dry spot just to catch my breath. But soon, that side would be soaked, too. My eyes felt heavy and swollen behind my glasses.
The day was a loud, horrible reality I had to survive, but the night was my secret meeting place. Even though I suffered from the cold weight of insomnia, the night was the only time the "curtain" opened. Only in the darkness could I close my eyes and find my way back to my mother's side. I loved the shadows because the shadows brought the dreams. I didn't mind the soaked pillows or the dark circles under my eyes; I was willing to pay any price just for a few minutes of "feeling alive" in my mother's presence. For me, the Endless Nights of Longing were not a curse—they were my only escape.
In my dreams, the house was warm again. My mother was there, humming in the kitchen or sitting beside me and the air didn't feel heavy with silence. It was a beautiful dream—a world where the "horrible events" hadn't happened yet. In those dreams, I wasn't a " lonely soul"; I was just a daughter, loved and protected.
I never wanted to leave that world. I would try to hold onto the dream, to stay in that golden light forever.
But then, the morning sun would pierce through my eyelids, dragging me back to the cold, gray reality. The transition was like a physical blow to my chest. As my eyes adjusted to my empty room, the realization would hit me, "It was just a dream." The warmth was gone. My mother was gone. The "beautiful world" of the dream had shattered, leaving me standing alone in the ruins of my life.
Every morning, my heart broke into a thousand pieces all over again. I would lie still for a few minutes, wishing I could just close my eyes and go back to that world again, but the house was already demanding my presence. I could hear the clatter of my father in the hallway, a reminder that I had chores to do and a life to pretend to live.