I'm not sure what it is about the night. Mysterious, soft, and alluring, it sneaks up on the day until it falls back into the distance as the sun returns. For some reason, it's most often the time when the kind of memorable moments and conversations tend to happen. Some moments are unexpected, but comforting, like deep conversations with friends with the hum of crickets in the background, providing a short, but meaningful oasis in the wilds of life. It made me wonder why more things are said under the stars than under the sun, and here are three personal stories that helped me think through this question.

sunset

It had been a few days since we last talked and I knew I had to go figure it out with her in person. It was 1:30 AM and a silent night as I walked up, trying to think of exactly what to say as my shoes touched each stair. I rang the doorbell and heard the familiar sounds of slippers pressing against the wood floor, lamps bathing her in yellow as she opened the door, engulfing me in light. Whispers were exchanged about where to go, for everyone else in the apartment was sleeping. We walked around the cheaply ornate interior - an empty stairwell, a decaying porch - none of that would do. We ended up in a tight corner of the laundry room on top of the washer, the gentle hum of cotton spinning and churning in the background. I turned to look at her and her soft brown eyes. For once, there was no way to ignore each other. There was no screen and no other people, just soapy polyester thumping underneath us.

"I don't understand you."

midnight

1:30 AM. I was clearing the kitchen table, flashy advertisements and scratch paper hiding the wood underneath. The door opened. "Could you talk right now?" I grabbed my jacket and we headed out. It was spring, and there was a little bit of wind nipping at our feet. I didn't talk for the first thirty minutes. It wasn't about me, and I was just there to listen and be there, and for right then I walked in tandem across campus. Lights highlighted the clock tower, but our faces remained obscured in shadow as we looked on. I sat down on the staircase overlooking the Bay Bridge, the occasional dot moving across the roadway. He asked me what I thought. I could relate to a lot of what he had to say. His head hung low. I thought about how to respond: what would be empathetic, what would be personal? He waited patiently. I couldn't reply. Minutes later, we walked through the glade and I talked about how I, too, had felt like I had failed, but had since found some sense of self-worth and hope. There was nothing that night but an open spirit.

sunrise

I had a paper due at 9:30 AM. It was 1:30 AM and I was eating tacos brought back from Tacos Mi Rancho, the truck right next to Lake Merritt. I was leaning back in a black armchair, my head against the headrest and my mouth against the tortilla. "What are you going to do?" "Where are you planning to be?" "Who are you into right now?" I asked questions and I answered questions while miraculously detailing what Theodor Adorno would have to say about today and our increasing desire to talk about ourselves. There was ShareTea on my right, grapefruit green tea and lychee jelly engineered to keep me up, and yet I was still moderately delusional, my words fumbling, an onion falling out of my mouth. There was no filter and a variety of napkins to keep me clean, bodies made up of people staying up with me to hear birds chirp in the morning. I walked to class clutching my paper, but now in the early morning light, there were almost too many faces. Bodies made up of people hidden behind screens, holding up judging eyes, and placing mirrors to contort themselves into positions that looked right for the people they wanted to please. Behind pairs of eyes stood melancholy and bitterness and resignation. I walked to class in my pajamas, dropped off the paper, slept through most of the lecture, and then foot-foot-step-step I was home. There was still harsh sunlight streaming through the window, and I decided to let it slide.

Here's to the nights that are young, to silence deafened by ten thousand cricket chirps in perfect echo, two lone ambulance sirens in harmonic interlude, and the low ambient murmur of the evening wind pushing gently against your chest.