I didn't sleep. Not really.
I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, rolling from side to side, sheets twisted around me like the tentacles of some sleep-depriving sea monster.
Every time I closed my eyes, my brain yanked up a greatest-hits reel of anxiety: Seraphine's laser eyes at dinner, the ever-ticking clock counting down to school, and—most of all—Maeve.
Maeve in her kitchen, Maeve on her couch, Maeve with her shirt half-off and her hands on my hips. My pillow still smelled faintly like her, which was both comforting and torturous.
Somehow, I drifted off an hour before dawn and dreamed I was being chased through a kitchen by a giant noodle. Typical.
So, when my alarm shrieked at 6:45, I felt like I'd been flattened by a runaway bread cart. I dragged myself upright, blinking at the pale blue light slipping around my curtains.
