Midnight Confessions of a Daydreaming Girl

It’s always around 11:00 p.m. when my brain decides to pick a pen and start acting like it runs a literary agency.

One minute I’m curled under my covers, wrapped like a burrito, convincing myself this is the night I’ll get eight hours of sleep like a functioning adult. The next minute? I’m floating into scenes I’ve never lived, writing dialogue between people who don’t exist, and falling in love with random book boyfriends.

Honestly, if you saw the state of my Notes app…

I don’t know what it is about the night. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the moon. Maybe it’s that soft ache of loneliness that feels like company sometimes. But this is when my most absurd, beautiful, reckless ideas show up uninvited, wearing pajamas, and sipping peppermint tea like they own the place.

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It’s in these late hours that the “daydreaming girl” version of me takes over. She’s dramatic, emotional, and a hopeless romantic. She dreams about:

A tour I’ve not planned but already have the outfit for.

Living in a tiny Paris apartment with peeling paint and a view of the Seine.

Writing scenes from Heart of a Dilemma and wondering how Elise’s husband managed to be both charming and trash. (Men, honestly.)

Sometimes, I confess things to myself that I wouldn’t dare say out loud — not because they’re secrets, but because they’re too precious to risk being misunderstood.

Like the fact that I’m afraid I’ll never finish my novel, but I write anyway.

Or that I wonder if my blog touches anyone. If my words curl around someone’s heart the way I hope they do.

Or how I still replay conversations in my head, rewriting my responses like a script until I sound confident and poetic.

I scroll through Pinterest for “soft life inspo” while my kettle whistles in the background, not because I’m planning my dream life, but because I already live in it — quietly, slowly, intentionally.

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In these midnight musings, there’s no pressure. No need to sound wise or polished or powerful. Just me, the words, and a version of myself that still believes stories can change things — if not the world, at least me.

The girl who used to scribble imaginary endings to TV shows in the back of her school notebook… she’s still here. Only now, she has a blog, a half-written novel, and a deep yearning to connect.

She’s not trying to be profound. She just has thoughts at 1:02 a.m. that feel too poetic to keep to herself.

And you know what? Maybe you do too.

Maybe you’ve got a journal hidden somewhere, or half-baked drafts sitting in your drive. Maybe you lie awake at night with ideas pacing your mind like restless children.

If that’s you, then hey, welcome to the club. We’re the midnight dreamers, the overthinkers, the soft life storytellers.

And maybe, just maybe — that’s where the real magic begins.

Until the next confession, sweet dreamers…

🖤

Your fellow night owl and writer-in-progress

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