The sheet peels away from my skin as I sit up, the chill of the apartment rushing to fill the warm space I vacated. Four hours and twenty-seven minutes of sleep. I read once that successful people can function on four hours a night. I was not built for success.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plantmy feet on the floor. The cold travels up through my bones, a jolt that does more to wake me than the alarm. I run my hands through my hair, the grease from too many days of dry shampoo and quick rinses sticky beneath my fingers.
No time for a real shower this morning, either.
Standing requires more effort than it should, as my back twinges with a reminder of the heavy boxes I unloaded yesterday. My shoulders carry the tension of too many hours hunched over prep tables and locks. The persistent ache in my knees speaks of miles walked between bus stops.
The apartment offers no comfort as I shuffle to the bathroom, where the mirror reveals a ghost with skin pale from lack of sunlight and circles beneath my eyes dark enough to look like bruises. I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it pulling me further into wakefulness.
Teeth brushed, deodorant applied. Each action takes place without conscious thought, muscle memory carrying me through the motions while my brain struggles to catch up.
In the kitchen, the linoleum sticks to my bare feet as I move to the coffee maker and hit start.
While it gurgles to life, I pull Lena’s breakfast from the fridge and pop it into the microwave. Whenit heats up, I add rice from the cooker, mixing it to stretch the protein further.
Six o’clock. Fifteen minutes until Lena should emerge from her room, sleep-rumpled but ready to take on another day.
I pour coffee into my chipped mug, watching steam rise in the dim kitchen light. The liquid burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain as another jolt of wakefulness.
Six ten, and still no sound from Lena’s room.
She’s cutting it close. The bus comes at six forty-five, and she needs time for breakfast and to gather her things. I drum my fingers on the counter, counting the taps to keep my mind from spiraling into calculations of what a late start means for our carefully orchestrated day.
Six fifteen. Still nothing.
Tension creeps up my neck and settles at the base of my skull. Lena never misses breakfast, and she’s never late for school. The routine matters to both of us. The twenty minutes at the table are our only real connection some days.
Six twenty. The coffee turns bitter in my mouth.
My jaw tightens as I wash my mug with unnecessary force. The apartment remains quiet except for the sound of running water and my ownbreathing, controlled and even despite the irritation building within.
I put her breakfast back into the microwave to reheat it.
Six twenty-five. This isn’t like her.
I check the calendar on the wall, scanning for notes about early meetings or study groups I might have forgotten. Nothing. Monday is just Monday, a school day like any other.
The microwave beeps for the second time, reminding me that her breakfast sits inside. I open the door and stare at the container. The smell of reheated chicken fills the kitchen, unappetizing but necessary. Calories to fuel her brain through morning classes. Protein to keep her satisfied until lunch.
Six thirty. We’re now behind schedule.
My shoulders stiffen as I stride down the hallway to her door. If she overslept, it means she stayed up too late studying. If she’s sick, it means doctor bills we can’t afford and missed work for me. Neither option fits into the system that keeps us afloat.
I pause outside her door, listening for the rustle of bedsheets, water running in her bathroom, or the soft pad of feet on carpet. Nothing.
I check the time. Six thirty. I picture the bus pulling away without her, the empty seat where sheshould be, the attendance mark added to her record. One absence becomes two, becomes a pattern that draws attention we can’t afford.
The seconds tick away, each one pushing us further from the safety of routine. I count backward from ten, a trick I use when tension threatens to crack my control.
Nine. Eight. Seven.
I flatten my palm on her door, as if I can sense her presence through the wood.
Six. Five. Four.
My fingers curl into a fist.
Three. Two. One.
