"Let me tell you a story," he said, as he felt her cuddle closer into his hug.
The night was deep.
She hadn't expected him to be awake.
He, unlike her, slept dearly and deeply, and claimed that all his stories came to him in his dreams. She hated his ease of sleeping just as much as she hated her insomnia.
"There used to be two frogs, who lived on two lotus leaves," he started off.
By the time he had carpentered the story like a masterful wordsmith, getting the two frogs to share a single lotus leaf, happily ever after, he knew by her soft regular breaths that she was asleep.
Tonight, he felt a lot more worthwhile than he had felt finishing his last novel.
He hated his ease of sleeping, as much as he hated her insomnia.
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