[2022 Wattys Winner] When love cynic Madison Watson starts university, she vows to follow three simple rules.
One: Work out at least twice a week.
Two: Get an internship.
Three: Stay away from men.
But after a chance encounter with th...
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New hypothesis: sleep is a drug.
During the aftermath of my breakup, when I felt anxiety wrapping its skeletal fingers around my throat every waking minute, when I looked to my future and saw nothing but broken promises and emptiness and lies, sleep became as much a crutch as any other drug. Some days, it was all I thought about—a glorious promise, a golden beacon that got me from one gray hour to the next. Tuning out the world gets addictive. Dangerously so.
My favorite part was a sliver of time in the morning, right before I woke up, when my mind would linger between consciousness and nothingness. I knew that I was in my bed, safe in my room, but fragments of dreams still fluttered behind my eyelids. My body felt light. Detached. As if I wasn't even real; as if my problems existed in another universe, dancing and twining light-years away.
That's exactly where I was when consciousness started filtering in the next morning—in a pocket between something and nothing. I eased into the soft mattress below me, gripping my pillow as if doing so would help me stay under for a little while longer. Just a little while longer.
But I felt like my head was floating. Up and down. Up and down. Like my pillow was alive. Like it was dancing beneath my head. It was soft and firm all at the same time. I smiled, tracing a finger mindlessly over its cotton pattern.
It responded. Like it was human.
Eli, my sleep-addled mind told me. Warmth surged through me, a lovely glow encasing my heart. Why did that feel strange, feel foreign? I burrowed into him, into his chest, my hand resting atop his ridges of hard muscle. Hard—but he responded to my caress. Eli's arm came around me, a broad hand settling on my lower back and nudging me closer, cradling me gently.
Far more gently than he usually did.
Love with Eli was nothing if not constant touches and physical declarations. It all only intensified after the first time we'd slept together—the first time we'd broken our years-long vow of chastity. And ... he smelled different. No sea, no brine. He smelled fresh, like citrus and grass cuttings and something spicy, something addictive. I leaned in closer, and when a sleepy groan slipped out of his lips, I smiled and pressed the softest kiss to his chest.
His breathing turned shallow. I grinned, my eyes still closed, kissing him through his shirt again. And again. One glancing peck after the other, slow and soft and lower and lower, only ...
Sense rocked through me. Only ... no. No. I didn't want to kiss Eli. I didn't want to cuddle Eli, or be held by Eli, because Eli had lied and cheated and broken my heart. This wasn't real. Or maybe it was real, but ...
My eyes sprung open. Horror burrowed under my skin. I wasn't in my bed at home. I wasn't even in my dorm room at Camden. I wasn't cuddling Eli, and my head certainly wasn't on my pillow.
