POV Adrián
It’s not that I don’t sleep.
It’s that sleep is afraid of me.
I’ve tried everything: top-tier sleeping pills that promise chemical oblivion, guided meditations with whispering voices, twenty-five-year-old Japanese whisky that burns slowly, playlists of rain falling on Tibetan temples. All useless. Insomnia isn’t a symptom. It’s a punishment. The price I pay for letting Claudia go out alone that night. For not going with her. For not insisting we stay home. For not saying “I love you” one more time before she closed the door with that smile that still haunts me.
It’s 3:51 a.m. New York glows below like a well-lit lie, a sea of lights pretending warmth that never reaches this high. My office in the Valcourt Tower is a glass capsule suspended over emptiness: glass walls, min
