62. Midnight Apartment (A New Year's Eve Story)

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The stillness of a cold winter night envelops a dimly-lit room, its window reflecting neon signs of storefronts and flickering lights of balconies. In the distance, lightning strikes, followed by quiet thunder and the soft tapping of raindrops on cold glass.

Inside, a small television nobody is paying attention to puts on a brilliant display of fireworks. Next to it lies a small videogame console, its screen full of vibrant colors that promise exciting adventures in distant worlds. The soft sounds emanated by the electronics tear away the silence of the night, muted by the clutter of plushies, figurines, and posters carefully arranged throughout the space. Though less carefully arranged, a pile of dirty laundry on the floor also does its part to contribute to the coziness of the space, somehow.

Ice from an abandoned glass of soda slowly melts in the comfort, sounding out a soft clack. On the floor above, muted heels move about, gathering round to celebrate the last few minutes of the year.

00:00, finally marks the digital clock on the computer screen. One by one, messages start trickling into the forum displayed on the open browser.

"Happy New Year, dear! ^^"

"明けましておめでとう!"

"Por aquí aún faltan un par de horas, pero igualmente ¡feliz año nuevo!"

Soft hands make their way to the brightly-colored keyboard, polished nails decorating each key as they move around with fluidity.

"Thanks, everyone :)"-send. The fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, then continue typing. "It's really great that all of you could make it. We're all sticking around to wish the next time zone a happy new year too, right?"

The digital clock marks 00:01; yet, on this particular evening, midnight will repeat again and again, for hours on end, as the world comes together for one day to step into the promises of the New Year.

How long will time be paused in this way? When will our hectic routines resume?

Perhaps when the vinyl's needle comes to a halt. Perhaps when the champagne glass is finished, washed, stored. Perhaps when light streams in through the window, and beckons forth its new day.

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