(no subject)

It's strange how good the sleep is when you get there by crying yourself into exhaustion. It's something I've done more than once. Even as a kid, I didn't like crying in front of people. I guess it became habit, saving it all up. I'm sure some people would argue it's not healthy, but if it spares me from insomnia, I'll take that trade off. Remembering the conversation I had with Jamie last night is surreal- the first time he'd spoken to me in a week and it had to be while I was disoriented and drained. Waking up this morning, much better rested than I probably should be, I've got it in my mind to try again, or at least get a straight answer out of him. He doesn't do the other thing as well as I do.

Except he's not here.

"Son of a bitch," Layla murmured, pulling on her denim capris and a tanktop different than the one she'd slept in. She toed on her flip flops and pushed the front door open, frowning to herself, ready to make a pretty rapid beeline for the compound, and stopped short.

"...Good morning."

There he was. She stood corrected.