#quietnights

Ok, so I got stuck in Hyvinkää under heavy snowfall when the train was late. Something in extreme weather always draws me. I instantly took out my camera and walked around the station.

So today there was supposed to be this astronomical phenomenon where the moon, Venus and Jupiter would form a smiling face, but it looks like my luck was not that great.

lavender thoughts #1

the ocean looked like it was healing something

and i think i was too

🌊💜

There were nights when I didn’t want company.

Not because I didn’t care about anyone—just because being around people felt like too much. Conversations, expectations, even small talk felt heavier than usual.

So I chose silence.

Not the empty kind. The kind that lets you breathe.

The kind where you don’t have to explain how you feel or why you feel it.

At first, it felt unfamiliar.

Like I was supposed to be doing something else. Reaching out. Filling the quiet with noise. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it wasn’t something to avoid.

It was something I needed.

Those nights became slower.

No pressure to respond. No need to be understood.

Just space.

And in that space, everything felt a little more manageable.

Even the smallest things felt different.

The way the room settled. The way your thoughts stopped racing as much. The way silence didn’t feel empty anymore.

On nights like that, I don’t reach for anything complicated. I don’t want anything that interrupts that quiet. I just go with something simple—something like a godspeed t-shirt I wear when I need the night to feel quiet and uninterrupted. Comfortable, familiar, and easy in a way that lets me stay exactly where I am.

Because when you finally find a kind of silence that feels right, you don’t want to break it.

You just stay in it.

I’ve realized that not every feeling needs to be shared right away. Not everything needs to be talked through or explained out loud.

Some things just need time.

And that’s probably why pieces like godspeed clothing that fits into calm, low-key nights without needing attention end up meaning more than expected.

They don’t stand out.

They don’t try to say anything.

They just exist quietly, the same way those nights do.

Sometimes I’ll sit there longer than I planned, doing nothing, saying nothing—and somehow, that feels more real than anything else.

Maybe that’s what those nights are for.

Not to connect with everyone else.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything special.

Just one of those nights where nothing was planned. No big events, no expectations—just a quiet evening after a long day. I remember stepping outside mostly to clear my head, pulling on something soft and familiar that made the night feel easier to step into, and thinking I’d only be out for a few minutes.

The air was calm, the kind that makes everything feel a little slower. Lights from the dorm windows flickered across the courtyard, and somewhere in the distance, music was playing low enough to blend into the background.

That’s when I ran into them.

It started with something small—just a simple “hey,” the kind you don’t think twice about. We’d seen each other around before, the way people do on campus, recognizing faces without knowing names. There was no reason for the conversation to last longer than a minute or two.

But it did.

We ended up sitting on the steps outside, talking about things that didn’t really matter at first. Classes, schedules, how the week had been dragging on. Easy topics. Familiar ground. The kind of conversation you can step into without effort.

And then, somewhere along the way, it shifted.

Not suddenly, not dramatically—just gradually. The pauses between sentences got a little longer. The words felt a little more honest. We started talking about things we don’t usually bring up in passing conversations. Plans that didn’t quite make sense yet. Moments that stuck longer than they should have. The strange feeling of not knowing exactly where you’re going, but still moving forward anyway.

Time moved differently after that.

At some point, I noticed how quiet everything else had become. Fewer people walking by. The music gone. The night settling into something deeper. I should’ve checked the time, probably should’ve said I needed to get back.

But I didn’t.

There’s something rare about conversations that don’t feel forced. When you’re not thinking about what to say next, or how you sound, or whether the moment will end soon. You just stay in it, letting it unfold however it wants to.

I remember leaning back slightly, hands tucked into my sleeves, the fabric warm against the cool air. That small sense of comfort made it easier to stay, to listen, to keep talking. Like the night had quietly decided to stretch itself a little longer.

Eventually, we both noticed how late it had gotten.

There was no dramatic ending. No sudden realization. Just a shared understanding that the moment had run its course. We stood up, brushed off the quiet stillness, and said goodnight like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Walking back, everything felt slightly different. Not in a big, life-changing way—just enough to notice. Like something small had shifted into place without asking for attention.

It’s funny how the nights you don’t plan for are the ones that stay with you.

The ones that begin with nothing and somehow turn into something you can’t quite explain. Just a simple evening, a familiar layer of comfort, and a conversation that lasted longer than it was supposed to.

The group chat had been buzzing since noon.

Plans were made quickly — a bar downtown, someone’s cousin visiting, a reason that didn’t really matter. By 8 p.m., the hallway outside my room sounded different. Doors opening and closing. Laughter spilling into the corridor. Someone arguing about what shoes to wear.

I sat on my bed, phone in my hand, staring at the last message: “You coming?”

For a second, I almost said yes out of habit.

But the day had been long in a quiet way. Not dramatic, not exhausting — just full enough that the idea of loud music and crowded rooms felt like too much.

So I typed, “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

The replies came quickly. “You sure?” “Next time then.” “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, the building emptied.

The silence afterward wasn’t immediate. It settled slowly. Footsteps faded down the stairwell. The elevator doors closed one last time. Then it was just the low hum of the air conditioner and a faint vibration from somewhere upstairs.

I stood up and changed into the soft layer I default to on quiet nights, pulling it over my head and letting the sleeves fall past my wrists. It wasn’t a statement. It was just comfort — the kind that doesn’t need witnesses.

I made tea instead of pouring something stronger. The kettle clicked off with a small metallic sound. Outside the window, I could see distant headlights moving toward wherever the night was happening.

There’s a certain guilt that comes with staying in. Like you’re missing a memory in the making. Like everyone else is collecting stories while you’re collecting stillness.

But as the minutes passed, the quiet began to feel intentional.

I played music at a low volume — the kind that fills space without demanding attention. I scrolled through old photos, rearranged the books on my desk, folded laundry that had been sitting too long on the chair.

Time moved differently. Slower, but not wasted.

Around 10:47, someone texted: “It’s so loud in here.”

I smiled at that.

Sometimes being alone isn’t about avoiding people. It’s about hearing yourself clearly for a while. About choosing softness over noise. About letting a night pass gently instead of chasing it.

By the time headlights started returning to the parking lot below, I was already under the blanket, room lights dimmed. The laughter in the hallway came back in waves — stories forming, shoes kicked off, doors closing again.

I didn’t feel left out.

I felt rested.