Midnight Snacks 🌙

It starts innocently.

I blink at the clock: 12:37 a.m. The world is quiet. No meetings, no noise, no calls.

My mind whispers, "A little snack wouldn’t hurt."

The fridge light spills across the kitchen floor. It’s almost romantic—me, in my crumpled pajamas, gazing at the shelves like a lover at the dawn of a rendezvous.

I know the story: guilty pleasure wrapped in foil or packed in Tupperware.

The leftover pizza slice calls me. So does the hummus, and the leftover burger left by my best friend, my 5-year old. Decisions, decisions.

At this moment, the fridge isn’t just a fridge. It’s a metaphor. For all the things I crave when the world finally leaves me alone. For all the parts of me that dare to come out only after the curtain of day falls.

Midnight snacks are freedom. No calorie-counting app in sight. No judgment from the coworker who always eats salads. Just me and my unapologetic hunger.

The strange beauty of midnight snacking is the honesty. No pretenses. No expectations. Just the raw simplicity of “I want that” and “I will have it.”

Of course, come morning, the crumbs will bear witness. The empty Tupperware, the wrapper on the counter. The little signs of my late-night tryst. I tell myself I’ll be better tonight—more disciplined, more sensible.

But the truth is, that midnight walk to the fridge is sometimes the most honest thing I do all day. A slice of vulnerability, under the glow of a fridge bulb.

I’m human. I have my 12:37 a.m. moments.

And perhaps, it’s those moments that remind me that I’m not a machine—I’m just a person, longing for a taste of something comforting in the dark.

Whether it’s a slice of cake or a spoonful of chocolate spread, I’m allowed my small rebellions.

So tonight, if I find myself by the fridge, I’ll enjoy it. Let the fridge light spill over. Feel the honesty of the moment.

And remember, the world can wait.

Until morning, at least.