Emily's house sat in one of those neighborhoods where every lawn looked identical, where success was measured in square footage and the cars in driveways, where everything appeared perfect from the outside.
She'd always hated that about it.
George had walked her home Saturday evening, making sure she actually got there, making her promise to sleep before he left.
She'd promised.
Now it was nearly midnight, and she was lying in bed staring at her ceiling, the same ceiling she'd stared at through high school, through every bout of test anxiety and college application stress and perfectionist spiral.
Nothing had changed. She hadn't learned anything.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
George: you better be asleep
Emily: I am asleep. this is sleep texting
George: Emily.
Emily: I'm trying. my brain won't shut off
George: count sheep or whatever people do
Emily: sheep don't work. I've tried
