Standing tall in the middle of the night, I feel the wind like knives prickle my skin. I look up to the starry sky and wonder, is this a real star or another hiding warplane?

Then it flashes! The star flashes and starts moving in a straight line.

A few seconds later the sky changes color and death is all around us.

I see the rocket fall, I hear the house crumble, and I smell the all-too-familiar scent of the singer whistling its funeral song. What I had hoped was a star was really a siren of death.

I just wanted a moment of peace on the roof of this place, one that is too strange to call home but a bit too familiar by now to not feel connected to in all its flaws. But my fear-soaked feet would not allow me to climb the staircase all the way to the top, so I settled for the closest window by the handrails.

A whistle makes me jump. A missile flies right over the edge of the window. I nearly fall down the staircase trying to escape this place….

Then a roar stops me short. It is the sky; it thunders in agony to answer the tragedy that disturbs its dark quiet.

It starts to rain. I hear a man on the radio say, “Death is scary everywhere but in Palestine.”

What an innovative way to romanticize our death, to say it’s easy. It never was and never will be easy to die by the hands of a faceless missile. Crushed by the remnants of what once was home, even if it was only home for a short while.

In life and in death we never got the peace we deserve. The respect that we oh-so-hoped for. All our ruined lives were never the missing puzzle piece to help you understand what a great life you have!

So I look up at the stars, looking for a friend, for solace in these lonely and frightening nights. Of course I find none. Just the indifferent rain.

I once adored the rain. I’d wait all year for winter to grace us with its haze, but now I despise everything winter brings: the cold, the rain, the oranges we can’t even taste.

I once loved the scent that comes after rain when the ground is wet and we can smell the soil. It once brought me comfort. But now all I smell is blood.

Scarlet red: once the heavens descend and once we ascend both will be covered in red, the sky will no longer be black or blue, we will meet there covered in the red of our blood and the black and blue of our bruises. The sky loses its original color but we give it back with the palette of our skin.

Scarlet red, blue, and black.

We don’t die in the day or night. The shells create a new hour, new minute, new second. We don’t see it coming. Always waiting for it but never expecting it. The shells decide when it’s time.

Rockets fall, they color the sky and they rumble across the stars. Once they reach their destination they shake a whole nation.

“Death is scary everywhere but in Palestine.” Just because we wait for death doesn’t make it easier to accept. We lay there and wonder: will it ever be over? Will we see its end or will we reach ours?

I used to wait for Sundays, but now every day is the same. We have a new calendar that started on Oct. 7, and we just count days. And as we wait, our sense of self deteriorates.

I’d had enough of this pain, so I went back down to get some sleep, even though it’s nearly impossible to do that now. By my books it’s still early for me to sleep; the sun is still down. I stay up all night to guard my family — if we’re ordered to evacuate at ungodly hours someone has to be up to wake everyone else. If our roof becomes our blanket someone has to be up to call out for help. I have to be up to call for help, to cry out, to do something, anything.

In the room where I sleep with my mother, little brother, and my sister and her kids, it’s hard to move around without waking one of them, but I still manage to do it.

I reach my sleeping spot on the floor and do more staring out the window. I sleep right next to it, which is terrifying at times like these. But there isn’t enough space to pick and choose and I can’t let anyone else sleep here; the window may shatter and shards of glass would puncture whoever has to sleep here. So I convince everyone that I want to sleep by the window because I love staring out of it — but in reality I am terrified. I lay and look out and wonder which will kill me first — the shattered windows or the fallen walls? Or will it be that exact same ceiling that hovers over our broken bones?

Whichever it is, I hope it does so fast and easy — I can’t handle pain. I am a coward and it’s okay to be one, I think.

Will they fall all at once or will they take turns?

Will it hurt?

Does it matter anymore?

I welcome death in all its forms. I’ve waited long enough.

I’ve always hated physics. Now here I lay and wait for its laws to be proven once again. This time I will be the proof to both Newton and his laws.

I will lay still till I am moved by the power of the next force.

I will say goodbye forever and I will welcome the unknown.

I wonder why do Gazens love Gaza this much?

Why do we love it this much?

I loved roaming its streets in winter. I jumped in tiny puddles of water and took strolls in the rain. I saw Gaza gleaming and it was a sight to be seen.

I walk around now and feel the loneliness from the wandering faces. We struggle to live day by day. Are we living or are we merely surviving?

Gaza was our Eden. Here we lived, loved, and longed — longed for a better life, a better future, better everything.

Will there be a ceasefire or will we cease to exist?

I close my eyes and give in to another night of interrupted sleep.