My bedtime is 7 PM. I'm not old, I'm efficient — I've simply eliminated the least productive hours of the day, which are all of them after dinner. The news is depressing, social media is an argument, and your brain starts replaying embarrassing moments from 2014. The owl has reviewed the evening's offerings and declined all of them.
Pajamas by six, unconscious by seven, silently judging you by seven-oh-five. The judging is involuntary — it's just what happens when a well-rested creature watches a tired one make bad decisions in real time. The look says "you'll be sorry at 6 AM," and he's right, and you know he's right.
He doesn't have FOMO. He has JOMO — the joy of missing out — and he's been practicing it for years. Every hour of sleep before midnight counts double. That's just science. Probably. Don't check.
Mock the 7 PM bedtime all you want. He'll be asleep. He won't hear you. That's the whole point.