Zoey
Morning came too fast.
The alarm on my phone screamed at 6:30, and for a full minute, I just lay there, face buried in my pillow, trying to remember why getting up was worth it. My back ached from the cheap mattress, and the faint scent of disinfectant from the hospital still clung to my jacket.
I groaned and rolled over. “Okay, Zoey. You've got this,” I muttered to myself, which sounded less convincing the more I said it.
My roommate, Tara, was surprisingly in. She was rarely at home. She was already up — earbuds in, towel wrapped around her hair as she swayed in front of the mirror, applying mascara like she was getting paid for it. She sang along to whatever was playing in her earphones, using her hair dryer as a microphone. When she caught me sitting up, she smirked.
“Morning
