“Come lie down,” she says. “It’s easier if you just… stop fighting it.”
The nightmare-me takes a step forward.
Actual me tries to scream.
I can’t.
My throat is full of cotton and chalk and every time I’ve ever wanted to disappear.
I jerk awake with a gasp that feels like my lungs ripping open. I’m soaked in sweat and my heart is sprinting. The room is dark, but there’s a sliver of streetlight by the blinds, just enough to prove I’m in the condo, not that fucking bedroom.
Miguel is dead asleep, sprawled beside me, mouth open a little. The fan hums softly in the corner.
In for four.
Hold.
Out.
My hands tremble, and for a second, I consider waking him. Telling him everything. Letting him pull me in and say the same things he always says: “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re not her, you’re not him, you’re not eight anymore.”
Instead, I slide out of bed as quietly as I can.
I stand in the bathroom with the light off, gripping the sink, watching my reflection in the faint glow from the hallway. My face looks like I’ve been through hell, with my eyes too wide and cheeks hollow.
“You’re fine,” I whisper. “It was just a dream. You have exams. You have the plan. You have a boyfriend who would panic if he knew how loud it’s getting.”
There’s the real reason.
Things have been… good.
Soft landings. Dancing in the kitchen. Real dinners. Coach talking about camps and drafts and futures. Dad apologizing in weird, halting ways. I don’t want to drag everyone back into the swamp because my brain decided to rerun the trauma channel this week.
So I splash cold water on my face. I count my breaths and crawl back into bed and press myself against Miguel’s side, tucking my nose under his jaw. He murmurs something that sounds like “hey, baby,” in his sleep and wraps an arm around me.
I lie awake, eyes open, until birds start screeching outside.
“I’m just tired,”I tell him at breakfast. It’s not completely a lie, just omitting some truth in order to protect him.
He eyes the uneaten half of my toast. “You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon,” he says. “Nightmares?”
I reach for my coffee. “Just exams,” I say lightly. “Psych class was heavy and my brain’s processing the last lecture in weird ways. You know how it is.”
Miguel watches me for a beat too long, like he’s reading the fine print on my soul.
“Volume?” he asks.
“Five,” I say. “Maybe five-point-five.”
He nudges a banana toward me. “Food,” he says. “Non-negotiable. And you’re telling Dr. K about the dreams.”
“I already have a packed schedule,” going tense. “I can’t squeeze in another session until the end of next week.”
“Then email her,” he says. “Or we can tag it at the end. But you’re not white-knuckling that alone, Caleb.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, honey,” I mutter.
That makes him smirk. “Don’t get all sassy. Gonna make me bend you over this island and show you how ‘Yes, honey’ you can get when I make you come so hard you see God.”
