Zane

The bedroom is utterly silent, and the lights are off, plunging it into a dense darkness. Only the dim rays of streetlight filter through the curtains, casting silhouettes of furniture on the walls. In this stillness, the phone screen on the nightstand suddenly flashes with a bright blue glow, cutting through the darkness. A brief vibration signals an incoming notification from Zayn. He writes at this late hour, as usual, directly and without unnecessary preamble:

— Aren't you sleeping?