Worn out by midnight — the body lent without asking

Midnight. The laptop is still glowing, and he's already spent — eyes stinging, shoulders heavy, the words on screen starting to blur. He remembers a time when a night like this was only getting started.

He used to stay up until 2am, three energy-drink cans lined up by the desk, and still walk into the morning smiling like nothing happened. Now anything past midnight ruins the whole next day. He was angry at his own body, as if it had walked out on him. Then one afternoon over iced tea on the sidewalk, an older friend just laughed: "That was a loan, you know." He closed the laptop earlier that night.

A friend texts: football, tomorrow morning? Back then he'd sleep at 2 and be on the pitch by 6. Now the first thing he does is blame himself. Then he looks at his worn-out boots and thinks of all the years his body went along with him without a single complaint. It didn't betray him. It's just tired. He texts back "I'm in" — and goes to bed early.

11pm, he switches off the light — and for once, he isn't annoyed. He'd thought he was on the way down. Then he noticed: the fittest guy on his street has his lights off by ten. It isn't a gift. It's something kept, one night at a time. The next morning he's up at six, early sun on his shoulders.

Back then, I borrowed from my body. Now I pay it back — for the long road.

Someone has stayed up with you every late night and never once complained. Tonight, will you let it rest a little earlier?