Don’t worry, I don’t think your cooking will kill him. He eats everything, at least from what I’ve seen at the pack dinners. What about you? Do you like everything?
Obsessed with almond croissants. Matcha lattes. And haggis. Allergic to grapes.
Really? Grapes? Can you drink wine then?
We kept texting. I asked about Logan’s blood type. Favorite color. Sleep schedule. Rudy didn’t even blink—he just answered,teased, deflected, and promised he’d try to get Logan’s number for me.
My happiness only lasted a short while.
What was I supposed to do now?
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It was the fourth webpage I’d devoured in the last hour. Peering at my brain-shaped alarm clock, my shoulders sagged with a sigh.
2:34 a.m. and still wide awake. After all our teasing,Imight have been the one who needed ashwagandha.
Humans associated the night with shadows and the mystery that dwelled there. A lack of light meant the inability to see and the loss of control, our unconsciousness feasting on our deepest fears.
Poets claimed that the night belonged to drunks, prostitutes, and lonely hearts.
To me, the night was the time to repair and regenerate all the damaged cells and strengthen the immune system. The time for our body to go through the sleep cycles, three stages of non-REM sleep and one of REM sleep. Non-REM sleep featured an absence of eye movement, the slowing of one’s heartbeat, breathing, and brain waves, the relaxing of muscles. Dreaming happened during the REM cycle. It stimulated areas of the brain essential to learning and making or retaining memories.
And I was depriving myself of that. I couldn’t sleep. Not at all. The more I tried, the worse it was. It felt like someone had mistakenly—or intentionally—poured caffeine into my meals today, or maybe some 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.
I climbed out of bed.
Two steady heartbeats told me two roommates were, luckily for them, in their REM sleep. However, one was missing out, just like me.
“Need help?” Amaia was curled up on the light green armchair in the living room, a small Totoro light hanging from the edge of the book and illuminating the page she was reading.
Makena was somewhere under two, maybe three blankets, with just a nest of her curly hair peeking out. A cute, sad little nest. Soft snores came from somewhere beneath them, her feet resting in Amaia’s lap. I could see a pile of crumpled napkins next to her and scattered across the floor.
“He doesn’t deserve her.” Tears shimmered in my eyes.
Still, we needed to experience pain to understand the contrast of happiness.
“Let’s go to my room,” Amaia mouthed.
My lips brushed Makena’s forehead, and I stroked her hair before following Amaia.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Why?”
She wrung her hands together. “For comfort. You look…agitated.”
Do I?
Amaia flicked on the kettle and added some chamomile into the teapot.
The layout of her bedroom certified her genius. The wall had formulas set in frames alongside pictures of complicated brain tumors. A plastic human body loomed where it stood in the corner.
She got the TV hooked up andDoctor Houseseason two was soon playing. It felt comfortable somehow. Reminded me how I started my path, of never forgetting our beginnings, our phases.
“So, tell me.” She plopped into her woolen beanbag, her hair all pinned up in a bunch of purple curling rollers. “Why are you still awake?” She paused, head tilting. “And why is your heartbeat about to implode?”
My hand flew to my face, camomile spilling onto my PJs. “You noticed?”
