I tip-toed down the long hall, passing my older brother’s bedroom door and the many rooms past it that screamed with silence. I crept toward the giant staircase that twisted directly to my large kitchen. As I entered the dark, cold stone kitchen, my eyes somehow drifted over to the clock. It clicked a small, annoying tick, tick, ticking and I noticed that it was 1:30 in the early morning. The house was quiet, everyone except for me was asleep, even our snoring yellow dog. I slowly opened a cabinet and sighed as I saw a beautiful display of boxes containing tea bags. Sleepy time, honey, lavender, throat coat, the possibilities were endless. Yet, I chose the most boring one, “Jasmine Sleepy Time Hot Tea”, and began to burn a kettle. Within minutes, I rushed over to the kettle, just in time to stop its whistling from awakening my parents or brothers. I grabbed a tan oven mitt and picked up the hot kettle, sat down at the counter, and poured some hot tea into my pink mug and splashed the rest into the sink. I savored the sweet taste, warmth from the mug spread throughout my hands and down my skin until my whole body was warm. As the tea rushed down my throat, my eyes fell droopy. This is the feeling that I longed for during the rough patches. Sweet tea making everything feel a little bit better. The house quiet, my tea warm, and my troubling worries were aside, contained in a box, hidden away. Why couldn’t it stay this way?