I didn't know if any part of me truly did believe that I could win.

My eyes scanned the page open in front of me, dreadfully blank, waiting for me to fill with ink messed-up characters that didn't behave without anything to show for rationality.

I knew I couldn't expect my heart to jump out of my chest and make this an easier process for me, but that was the best idea I had so far.

As I drew circles on my touchpad with my fingers, I pictured Miles at his writing desk, making up for the lost months of writing by writing non-stop all day.

That did nothing to help my confidence.

My fingers itched to fall back into old habits of filling up the page with words I had memorized right out of the dictionary. The alternative involved staring at the computer screen for several more hours.

It was way too early in the morning for my brain to form coherent sentences. But winning this challenge would complete my job as an undercover agent for Alec if Miles kept his end of the deal—which would give me one less thing to worry about.

I usually preferred not to stop once I started writing, but this was not a typical session anyway, so I found myself putting down the laptop in frustration.

My feet tiptoed back into my room, careful not to wake my Mom up.

I picked up the sleeping bag I had tossed aside this morning when I woke up so that Mom wouldn't trip over as she did two days ago. I stifled a yawn and glanced around my room, illuminated by a tiny starry night carousel nightlight Mom never slept without for as long as I could remember. It was a wonder that it had lived through all these years.

I was debating a new location to put away the rolled-up mat when I noticed that the bed was empty.

I couldn't remember seeing Mom walk around in between the quick glances to my screen. No light seeped from under the bathroom, but I caught on to a low sound coming from that general direction.

Pressing my ear to the door, feeling like quite the detective, I picked up on sniffles.

The sleeping bag slipped out of my hands, and I flinched away from the door.

That didn't sound right. For as long as I could remember, sadness wasn't a sentiment Mom ever expressed. Frustration, maybe. Anger, definitely. But never tear-provoking sadness.

I entertained the possibility of knocking for a brief second, visualizing what that would look like—slipping inside, hugging her, and talking through it. Through what?

I wasn't built for that. I was built for coherent plans to solve issues—for detachment. The concept of comforting someone was foreign to me.

She couldn't really blame me—she taught me to stay emotionally removed.

We had an implicit contract not to discuss feelings. Our bonding activities involved designing a balanced schoolyear plan every summer and organizing planners, breaking down every day to its very last minute.

"Did you get the highest grade?" replaced "How are you feeling?" and felt like a gradual and a sudden change simultaneously. The weekly scheduled check-ins were our I-love-yous.

Feelings never came up, at least not since I turned seven.

I wasn't fit for this, but calling Emma and Ace—or even Miles—to comfort my sobbing mother was a ridiculous notion.

Slowly, I backed away from the door. I must have imagined the entire thing. Mom wasn't crying—she did not give that much power to anything.

Besides, what would make her cry? She had a successful private practice that she co-founded with the love of her life—or whatever she called Dad these days. It had been so long since anything remotely tragic had happened to our cookie-cutter happy family.

I slipped out the same way I came in, feeling like an intruder in my own room. My bare feet barely brushed the floor, not wanting her to hear me for very different reasons this time.

There was no reason for me to feel bad. She probably wouldn't have wanted my poor stuttering imitation of the vague, feel-good, motivating speech anyway.

"Yes, that's it," I mumbled to myself, nodding at the rational conclusion. I was protecting her feelings, not mine.

I picked up the computer again, wishing I had never made the trip to my bedroom. Lingering images of what was left up to my interpretation spun and pounded against my head. I didn't know if I would be able to look at her the same and carry on with the petty banter that was characteristic of our conversations.

I wanted to zone it out of my mind, but this particular instance was much harder to forget than most other things I managed to block out.

My frustrated fingers pressed against the Backspace key even though there was nothing to erase on the page. If only it could also erase the sound of my mom sniffling that latched onto the unsteady organ in my chest and wouldn't let go.

The key continued to draw backward with a painful click, staying stuck at times. It did nothing to wipe out the memory, but I continued because my fingers wouldn't stop. They were the only part of me showing any sign of life, and I had no control over them.

The door cracked open and jumpstarted my brain. My hands flew across the keyboard as I typed words that probably made no sense. But they would be enough to convince Mom that I had been writing all along and had not heard anything I wasn't supposed to hear.

"Will you ever put away that mat of yours when you wake up?" She ran a lazy hand over her loose hair. It seemed like the first time I was seeing her hair down in a while.

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened, but no tear stains were marring her cheeks. Her face was composed enough to make me wonder if I really did hallucinate the whole thing.

Ignoring her question, I asked one of my own. "What are you doing up so early?"

I didn't know what I expected as a response, but I knew I did not want to hear anything close to the truth.

If she knew I had heard her, her expressions had me fooled.

"Well, I was having a hard time going back to sleep. You're not very quiet," she said, and the appearance of a small smile caught me off-guard. "You must have been having a nightmare. I assumed they stopped."

"Nope, still around. I sleep right through them, though, so they don't affect my life."

She stepped out of the room completely, still dressed in her nightgown. "Do you have coffee?"

I pointed in the vague direction of the kitchen.

She walked past the couch, and I noticed her shoulders slouching, preventing her from standing as tall as I was used to seeing her.

My fingers hovered above the keyboard, but there was no way I would get any writing done at this rate. I caught small glimpses of the document as I blinked.

"Late night?" Mom asked from the kitchen, moving around, opening and closing cupboards to locate everything.

"Your fault," I reminded her. "Hang out with your friends." My fingers drew quotation marks in the air. In a slightly higher pitch, I continued, "You might not get the chance soon."

"But did you enjoy it?" She returned to the living room and handed me a cup of coffee in a mug decorated in faux glitter.

Most things about yesterday had been taxing. My mind revisited the night in brief images of the challenging glint in Miles's eyes and the playful smile that appeared on his face before nudging me.

They had numbed me to exhaustion and made me consider the irrational idea that running on no sleep at all for months was a possible feat.

The vivid memories lingered in my brain as if the part of my brain was responsible for them had snapped pictures of these moments, as Ace had done all night when we least expected it.

He was taking his new calling very seriously. But then, he always did when they were new.

"It really depends on your definition of "enjoy". It was nice."

She did not push for more information, moving on to another topic. "Do you have class today, or are you working?"

"Both." My fingers found their designated place on my temples and rubbed small circles to chase away the incoming headache at the mere thought of the long day ahead of me. "An exciting summer for sure."

"It sure sounds like it," she said, picking up her phone from the coffee table.

I knew her morning process by now—she woke up, checked her emails, ate breakfast, responded to emails. To be repeated every day.

Her inbox was always flooded with emails from network connections, clients, and business offers.

I tried to focus back on the page filled with words that had no direct connection to each other. I erased them, but Mom's occasional comments about what she was reading weren't the kind of background distraction that facilitated inspiration.

"Interesting," she mumbled, mindlessly scrolling past something on her screen.

"Fine." I placed the computer down and sipped on my coffee as I gave her my full attention. The mug felt soft and just warm enough under my anxious fingers. "What is it?"

She looked up from her phone, an innocent look on her face. "Did I say that out loud? I'm sorry. I was just reading about a new Australian writing program."

"I didn't know you were interested in writing, Mom. If I remember your words correctly when I mentioned my plan for college, you said that writing is a waste of time and business is the smarter option."

Dad, always the voice of reason, had assured me that I could always change my mind if writing didn't work out. Those were the words I needed back then to dive into it, knowing I could always pick something else later.

Mom dismissed the comment with a wave. "Not for me, silly. It's a program for seniors that I figured might interest you. You get to continue taking your classes online while getting the unique opportunity to write a foreigner's column for the national newspaper for six months."

"The national newspaper?" I asked, skeptical at the news. "It's a terrible idea. Have you met college students lately? That's a civil war in the making."

"Besides," she went on, ignoring my concern, a trick she had mastered a long time ago, "it would be a new place."

"Why did you think I'd be interested in that? Australia is on the other side of the globe."

"You used to mention wanting to travel all the time." Her wide eyes signaled that she had expected a different response.

"That was way before college. You know, back when I wanted to join you and Dad on your business trips."

"Oh." Her face fell for a brief moment before she covered it up. "Well, now you can whenever you want to."

"Yeah, I don't really have the time for that now."

I didn't know if she was tuning me out or really didn't hear me. "I'll send it to you just in case."

"Knock yourself out." I put down my empty mug and stood up with my laptop to find a quieter writing spot.

I had my hand on the doorknob before I turned back around, a hazy concept forming in my head. "Hey, Mom," I called out, and she redirected her attention to me. "Have you talked to Dad since you've been here?"

"Time-zone differences," she replied without missing a beat.

I nodded, and I settled in my bedroom for another writing attempt. But the idea stuck at the forefront of my mind and refused to budge. Did Mom cut her trip short just because I hadn't picked up her calls, or did she have a more important reason?

The sobs invaded my mind again, and I didn't try to chase them away this time, as my fingers finally pressed down on the keys on my laptop, forming real words this time.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

This chapter took much less time and tears than the others--maybe it's because introspective scenes come more naturally to me than dialogue-heavy scenes.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

-D.T. ➷