𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒 is the daughter of Luke Danes, and is always second best to the already perfect Rory Gilmore, somebody who Lucy has compared herself to her entire school life until Rory is accepted to the prestigious school, Chilton, somew...
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September 6th, 2000
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[ LUCY'S POV ]
I'VE BEEN TOLD I'M A DARLING DAUGHTER, A CHILD PRODIGY, A FRAGILE KID. I've been told I'm a sweet girl, a girl who holds a heavy heart and her head low—usually in a book— but I believe I hold my head high and proudly, especially when I'm at school or studying.
I'm leaning against my hand, flicking through my textbook as the dim light of my desk lamp flickers, meaning I need to change the bulb soon. It's late, it's dark and my eyes are starting to sting but I'm confident to finish my work. If I don't, I'll feel as if I'm falling behind— even if I'm more ahead than other kids in my year— but I'm also exhausted, and all I want to do is crawl into my perfectly made bed and pull the sheets over her head.
My dad is sound asleep, light snores leaving his mouth, and I hope I can finish this work without making a sound. So far, I've been successful, but there have been nights where I've stayed up much later than this and woken him up. Dad is due to wake up in less than an hour, and if I can get just a couple minutes of sleep, I would've accomplished all my goals for the night.
I fall asleep at my desk at 4:08am and I wake up thirty-seven minutes later to the sound of Dad's alarm. One day, in the future, I will get enough sleep, but until then there's nothing coffee can't solve. I move down the stairs, rubbing my eyes, and I step into the diner. My head pounds in my skull, and I desperately want coffee, coffee, coffee.
I reach for the filter to make a new batch of coffee, smiling when I smell that gorgeous coffee.
Dad hates how much I love coffee, hates how I rely on it every single morning, and hates how I make the coffee too strong for any customers to drink but I don't care.
Dad steps past me as I pour my coffee into my mug, pushing a kiss against my head. "You haven't slept," he says, squeezing my shoulder as I move away, holding the cup in my hand as I sit at the counter.
"I slept." For thirty-seven minutes.
"For how long? Thirty minutes?"
"Thirty-seven minutes," I correct, pointing my finger towards him.
He shakes his head, obviously disappointed by his daughter's sleeping arrangements. I can't say I blame him for being frustrated with my lack of sleep, especially since I always act like I'm going to sleep the same time he is before I switch the lamp on and continue with work.
