Midnight Football

I asked my friend why he loves playing football at night. His answer hit different "Emotions will be at their peak." No floodlights, no crowd, just him, the ball, and the chaos inside his head. He overthinks, he overfeels, but on the field, everything makes sense.

His football doesn’t judge. It doesn’t ask why he’s mad, why his mind is running laps faster than his legs, or why he feels like the world is too much. It just lets him play. He kicks, he dribbles, he shoots he releases. Every ounce of frustration, every unsaid word, every bottled-up thought gets a chance to breathe. The night listens when no one else does.

The goalpost? Not just a target. It’s where he channels his anger, his fears, his doubts. The ball? Not just a ball. It’s his silent therapist, taking hit after hit, but never leaving his side.

Maybe that’s why midnight football hits different. It’s more than a game. It’s therapy. It’s freedom. And sometimes, under the night sky, with just a ball at his feet, he finally feels heard.

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