I stopped sleeping on a Tuesday.
Not the dramatic, cinematic insomnia of a man tormented by a single, haunting decision. Nothing that clean. It was subtler than that, a gradual erosion, like a coastline losing ground to the sea.
First, the nights shortened. Seven hours became six. Six became five. Then the texture changed. The sleep I did get was shallow, brittle, full of half-dreams where I was standing on a touchline in a stadium I didn't recognise, screaming instructions at players whose faces kept changing.
I would wake at 3 am with my jaw clenched so tight that my molars ached, the System pinging in the darkness of the bedroom notifications about Swansea's defensive transitions, about Leicester's set-piece structure, about the optimal rest period between December fixtures and I would stare at the ceiling while the data scrolled across my vision and the woman beside me breathed the slow, steady rhythm of a sleep I could no longer reach.
