I wake before dawn, not because I am rested, but because my body refuses to stay still.
The room is dark and quiet, the air cool against my skin, and for a few seconds I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I can close my eyes again and let sleep take me back under. It does not work. There is a tight, restless energy coiled under my ribs, the kind that does not ease with logic or exhaustion, and I know better than to fight it. Fighting it only sharpens it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, feet pressing into the floor as if grounding myself might convince my body that nothing is wrong.
Layla is awake already, alert and watchful, her presence steady but not soothing. She does not push. She does not speak. She simply observes, and that somehow
