Going Through The Motions
1138 Words
That night, sleep wouldn’t settle.
Amelia lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the thin line of streetlight creeping through the gap in her curtains. The house made its usual noises — pipes ticking, the fridge humming, the distant creak of settling wood — but instead of comforting her, they felt amplified.
Too loud.
Too empty.
She turned onto her side. Then her other side. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, then kicked it off when her skin grew too warm.
Her mind wouldn’t switch off.
It replayed the kitchen scene over and over. The way her dad had signed the paper without reading it. The way he’d said Sounds cool, kiddo in that distracted, almost automated tone. The way she’d been left standing there, words still waiting to be heard.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
It was just… indifferent.
Her chest tightened.
Maybe she was expecting too much. Maybe this was normal. Maybe other parents didn’t ask questions either. Maybe other girls didn’t need their dads to care about tide pools and biodiversity reports.
But the ache was still there.
She rolled onto her back again, staring into the dark.
The twins had asked why she never went on the trips.
Why don’t you come with us?
She hadn’t known how to answer because the truth felt too sharp: no one had asked her to.
She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be chosen. Not out of obligation. Not because she was the responsible one. Just… wanted.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her chest like she could physically steady the heaviness building there.
Her brain shifted gears the way it always did at night — sliding from sadness into anxiety without warning.
What if the field trip went wrong?
What if she forgot something important?
What if Lola decided to sit with someone else on the bus?
What if this slow, subtle drifting wasn’t in her head?
Her thoughts moved faster.
What if Dad stopped coming home at night altogether?
What if something happened to him?
What if something happened to the twins?
Her breathing grew shallow.
She sat up abruptly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closer than they’d been seconds ago.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
She stood and padded quietly down the hallway, pushing open the twins’ bedroom door just enough to see them. They were tangled in their blankets, breathing evenly, faces soft in sleep.
They were okay.
She lingered there longer than necessary.
Guardian.
That was the word she’d used earlier when talking about their mum. Guardian angel.
The irony pressed against her ribs.
She closed their door gently and returned to her room.
Back in bed, she curled onto her side and stared at the wall. The earlier excitement about the field trip felt distant now, like something that belonged to a different version of her — a lighter one.
Her brain wouldn’t stop cataloguing everything she was responsible for. Lunches. Forms. Homework. Emotions. Stability.
There was no space left for her.
A dull, familiar thought slipped in — quiet but persistent.
If I disappeared for a day, would anyone notice?
The idea scared her enough to force her eyes shut.
Of course they would. The twins would. Lola would.
Wouldn’t she?
Amelia inhaled slowly, counting to four. Held it. Exhaled.
Again.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her under — not peaceful sleep, not rest — just a heavy, dreamless drop into unconsciousness.
And even then, her chest never quite unclenched.
Amelia’s alarm went off, and she silenced it without opening her eyes. For a few seconds, she lay completely still, trying to remember what it felt like to wake up excited about something.
She couldn’t.
Her body felt heavy, like someone had replaced her bones with wet sand overnight. Even sitting up took effort. She moved through her room quietly, mechanically — uniform on, hair brushed, bag packed. She didn’t look at herself for long in the mirror. Just long enough to make sure she looked presentable.
Presentable was enough.
In the kitchen, she switched on the kettle and started breakfast for the twins. Toast popped up. Cereal poured. Lunches packed. Her hands worked automatically, muscle memory guiding her through each step.
When the twins shuffled in, she forced brightness into her voice.
“Morning, monsters.”
They grinned, still sleepy, and started talking about something trivial — a class game, a sticker chart, whose turn it was to be line leader.
Amelia nodded and smiled at the right moments.
She laughed when they expected her to.
She asked follow-up questions.
She performed.
But underneath it all, there was a hollow space where her enthusiasm used to live.
When she dropped them at their school gate, one of them hugged her quickly before running off. The other waved without looking back.
Amelia stood there a second longer than necessary.
And then something inside her just… powered down.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a breakdown.
It was more like a switch flipping.
She turned toward her own school and walked.
The noise of students around her felt distant. The chatter blurred into static. She nodded at familiar faces without fully registering them.
At the front gate, she spotted Lola and pasted on her usual smile before Lola noticed her.
“Morning,” Lola said, breezy as ever.
“Morning.”
They walked inside together. Lola talked about something — a rehearsal idea, an argument with her dad, a random observation about someone’s haircut.
Amelia listened.
She responded.
But it felt like watching herself from a step outside her own body.
By midweek, the feeling hadn’t lifted.
She went to class. Took notes. Answered questions when called on. Sat at lunch. Walked home. Cooked dinner. Helped with homework.
Each day slid into the next without leaving much of an imprint.
Lola didn’t seem to notice the shift — or maybe she did and interpreted it as stress. She bumped Amelia’s shoulder when she got too quiet. Called her dramatic when she sighed too heavily.
“You need the weekend,” Lola said on Thursday.
Maybe she did.
The only thing that cut faintly through the fog was the field trip.
Every time Mr Peterson mentioned it — a reminder about footwear, about bringing sunscreen, about meeting at school early — something small flickered inside her.
Not bright.
But there.
A change of scenery.
An ocean breeze.
A day that didn’t follow the same script.
By Friday afternoon, that flicker had grown just enough to be noticeable. Not joy. Not quite.
But anticipation.
And in the middle of a week that felt colourless, even that small shift felt significant.
Like maybe — just maybe — next week would feel different.
- Writer
