Sleepless
Emmalyn's POV-
The ceiling fan turned in lazy circles above my bed, its shadow dancing across the pale blue paint like a clock hand marking time I couldn’t reclaim. 2:47 AM. I’d been staring at it for over an hour now, watching the blades cut through the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through my curtains. Sleep felt like a luxury I’d forgotten how to afford.
I shifted onto my side, pulling the comforter up to my chin even though the San Francisco night wasn’t particularly cold. The house was quiet—too quiet—except for the occasional creak of old floorboards settling and the distant hum of a car passing on the street outside. Dad was asleep downstairs on the couch. Again. I’d checked on him before coming up to bed, made sure he was on his side, put a glass of water and aspirin on the coffee table for when he woke up with the inevitable headache.
This was my life now. Had been for two years.
I closed my eyes, trying to will myself into unconsciousness, but the moment the darkness settled behind my eyelids, the memories came flooding in like they always did. Uninvited. Relentless.
“You’re never here, Loris! You’re married to that goddamn job, not to me!”
I was twelve, maybe thirteen, pressed against my bedroom door with my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound of my mother’s voice rising from downstairs. It never worked. The walls in our house were too thin, or maybe their anger was just too loud.
“I’m working to provide for this family, Kylie! What do you want from me?”
“I want a husband who actually gives a damn! I want someone who sees me!”
The sound of something shattering—a plate, maybe a glass—made me flinch. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, humming softly to myself, anything to drown them out. But I could still hear my father’s voice, lower now, defeated.
“I do see you. I’m doing my best.”
“Well, your best isn’t good enough.”
I opened my eyes again, my chest tight. That phrase—“not good enough”—had become the soundtrack of my childhood. Different variations, same theme. My mother’s dissatisfaction had been a living thing in our house, growing larger and more suffocating with each passing year.
I remembered being fourteen and coming home from school to find them in the kitchen, my mother’s arms crossed, my father’s shoulders slumped in that way that made him look smaller than he was.
“There’s someone at work,” my mother said, her voice sharp and defensive. “He listens to me. He actually cares about what I have to say.”
My father’s face went pale. “Kylie—”
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” she snapped. “We’re just friends. But at least he makes me feel like I matter.”
I’d backed out of the kitchen before they noticed me, my stomach churning. Even at fourteen, I knew what “just friends” meant when your mother said it like that. I knew what the look in her eyes meant—that faraway expression, like she was already somewhere else, with someone else.
The memory shifted, blurred into another. Fifteen now, maybe sixteen. The arguments had become more frequent, more vicious. My mother stayed out later. My father drank more. I learned to make myself invisible, to slip through the house like a ghost, to do my homework with headphones on and music turned up loud enough to drown out the sound of my family falling apart.
I rolled onto my back again, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars. But I couldn’t stop the worst memory from surfacing. The one that had changed everything.
I was seventeen. It was a Tuesday afternoon in March, unseasonably warm, and I’d come home early from dance practice because I’d forgotten my chemistry textbook. The house was supposed to be empty—Dad was at work, or so I thought.
But when I walked through the front door, I heard voices in the living room. My mother’s voice, tight and angry. And my father’s, broken in a way I’d never heard before.
“How long?” he was asking. “How long has this been going on?”
I froze in the entryway, my dance bag sliding off my shoulder and hitting the floor with a soft thud. Neither of them heard it.
“Does it matter?” My mother’s voice was cold. “It’s been over between us for years, Loris. You know it. I know it. We’ve just been going through the motions.”
“We have a daughter—”
“Don’t you dare use Emmalyn as an excuse to keep me trapped in this miserable marriage!” Her voice cracked, and I heard her take a shaky breath. “I’ve been unhappy for so long. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.”
I should have left. Should have backed out the door and pretended I’d never heard any of it. But my feet wouldn’t move.
“So what are you saying?” My father’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’m saying I’m leaving. I’m saying I’ve been seeing Marcus for eight months, and I’m in love with him, and I’m done pretending.”
Eight months. The words hit me like a physical blow. Eight months of lies. Eight months of her kissing Dad goodbye in the morning and coming home to have dinner with us like everything was normal. Eight months of me being completely oblivious.
“Kylie, please—”
“I’m sorry, Loris. I really am. But I can’t stay.”
That’s when I stepped into the doorway. They both turned to look at me, and the expression on my mother’s face—guilt mixed with something that looked almost like relief—told me everything I needed to know.
“Emmalyn,” she breathed. “Sweetheart, I didn’t—”
“You’re leaving?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Distant. Like it belonged to someone else.
She took a step toward me, and I took a step back. “I’m so sorry you had to hear it like this. I was going to tell you—”
“When?” The word came out sharp, accusatory. “When were you going to tell me? After you were already gone?”
“It’s complicated—”
“It’s not complicated!” I was shouting now, tears streaming down my face. “You cheated on Dad! You’ve been lying to us for months! How is that complicated?”
“Emmalyn, please try to understand—”
“Understand what? That you’re selfish? That you don’t care about us?”
Her face hardened. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair!” I was sobbing now, my whole body shaking. “You’re supposed to be my mom. You’re supposed to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Supposed to what? Love us enough to stay? Love us enough to try?
She reached for me again, and this time I let her pull me into a hug, even though every part of me wanted to push her away. She smelled like her usual perfume—something floral and expensive—and underneath it, unfamiliar cologne. His cologne.
“I love you,” she whispered against my hair. “I love you so much, baby. This isn’t about you. You have to know that.”
But it was about me. It was about all of us. And when she pulled away, when she grabbed her already-packed suitcase from behind the couch and walked out the front door without looking back, I knew that her love—whatever form it took—wasn’t enough to make her stay.
My father stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the closed door, and I watched something inside him break. Actually break. Like a building collapsing in on itself, floor by floor, until there was nothing left but rubble.
I sat up in bed, my heart racing, my cheeks wet with tears I hadn’t realized I was crying. Four years. It had been four years since that day, and it still felt like yesterday. The wound was still raw, still bleeding.
And Dad had never recovered. The drinking started slowly—a beer or two after work to “take the edge off.” Then it was a six-pack. Then it was whiskey. Then he lost his job at the accounting firm where he’d worked for fifteen years. Then it was vodka in the morning, passed out on the couch by noon, and me trying to hold together the shattered pieces of our lives.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and glanced at my phone. 3:15 AM. I had to be at the dance studio by nine. I should try to sleep. But even as I lay back down, I knew it was pointless. The memories weren’t done with me yet.
“Where were you?”
Jackson’s voice was tight with barely controlled anger. We were standing in his bedroom—his parents were out for the evening—and I’d just arrived twenty minutes late because I’d had to help Dad into bed first.
“I’m sorry,” I said, setting my bag down by the door. “My dad needed—”
“Your dad needed you. Again.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Your dad always needs you, Em. When do I get to need you?”
I felt the familiar guilt twist in my stomach. “That’s not fair. You know what I’m dealing with—”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, you remind me every single day.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, his jaw clenched. “I’m tired of coming second to your drunk father.”
The words stung, even though part of me knew he was frustrated, knew he didn’t mean it. At least, that’s what I told myself.
“Jackson, please. Can we not do this tonight? I’m exhausted.”
His expression softened slightly, and he crossed the room to pull me into his arms. “I’m sorry. I just miss you. I feel like I never see you anymore.”
I leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. We’d been together for five years. Five years of history, of growing up together, of planning a future. He was supposed to be my constant, my safe place.
“I miss you too,” I whispered.
But even as I said it, I felt the distance between us. A distance that had been growing for months, maybe longer. I just hadn’t wanted to see it.
That was nine months ago. Three months before everything fell apart.
I wasn’t supposed to be home. I’d told Jackson I had a late shift at the bakery, but they’d sent me home early because it was a slow day. I’d decided to surprise him, maybe order pizza and watch a movie like we used to.
His car was in the driveway when I pulled up. Good. He was home.
I used my key—he’d given it to me on our four-year anniversary—and let myself in quietly, planning to jump out and scare him. But as I climbed the stairs, I heard voices. His voice. And a girl’s voice. Laughing.
My stomach dropped.
I should have left. Should have walked back down those stairs and out the door. But instead, I found myself moving forward, my hand reaching for his bedroom door handle, pushing it open.
They were on his bed. Jackson and a girl I vaguely recognized from his college classes. Her shirt was on the floor. His hands were in her hair. And when the door opened, when they both turned to look at me with identical expressions of shock, the world tilted sideways.
“Em—” Jackson scrambled off the bed, reaching for his shirt. “Em, wait, this isn’t—”
“Isn’t what?” My voice was eerily calm. “Isn’t what it looks like?”
The girl—blonde, pretty, everything I wasn’t—grabbed her shirt and pushed past me, mumbling an apology. I barely registered her leaving.
“How long?” I asked.
“Em, please, let me explain—”
“How. Long.”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “A few weeks. Maybe a month. I don’t know.”
A month. While he’d been texting me good morning. While he’d been telling me he loved me. While I’d been killing myself trying to balance taking care of my father and making time for him.
“Why?” The word came out broken.
And that’s when his expression changed. The shame melted away, replaced by something harder. Meaner.
“You want to know why? Because you’re never here, Em. Because every time I need you, you’re too busy playing nursemaid to your pathetic drunk of a father. Because I’m tired of being the understanding boyfriend who has to beg for scraps of your attention.”
Each word was a knife, carefully aimed.
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair?” He laughed bitterly. “What’s not fair is being in a relationship with someone who’s already married to their problems. You’re so busy being a martyr that you don’t have room for anything else. For anyone else.”
“I’m doing my best—”
“Your best isn’t good enough!” He was shouting now. “You’re not good enough, Em. You’re damaged goods. You’re your mother’s daughter—cold, distant, always looking for an excuse to push people away.”
The comparison to my mother hit me like a slap. “Don’t you dare—”
“It’s true though, isn’t it? You’re so afraid of ending up like her that you’ve become exactly like her. Emotionally unavailable. Incapable of putting anyone else first.”
I was crying now, ugly sobs that I couldn’t control. “I loved you. I gave you everything I had—”
“Everything you had wasn’t enough.” His voice was cold now. Final. “Maybe if you weren’t so broken, so fucked up from your mommy issues and your daddy issues, you could actually be someone worth staying faithful to.”
I don’t remember leaving. Don’t remember driving home or walking through my front door. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on my bedroom floor, my phone in my hand, staring at five years’ worth of photos of us together. Five years of my life with someone who thought I was broken. Damaged. Not good enough.
And the worst part? A small, terrible part of me wondered if he was right.
I threw off the covers and got out of bed, unable to lie there anymore with the memories suffocating me. The hardwood floor was cold under my bare feet as I padded to the window and pulled back the curtain.
After Jackson and I broke up—after I’d finally broken down and told Darren and Courtney everything he’d said, everything he’d done—they’d been furious. I’d never seen Darren so angry. He’d confronted Jackson, and the shouting match that followed had been loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Courtney had held me while I cried, had told me over and over that none of it was my fault, that Jackson was wrong about everything.
They’d built me a dance studio in their summer house after that. A place where I could escape, where I could lose myself in movement and music and not have to think about anything else. They’d given me a key to the gate between our yards and told me I was welcome anytime, day or night.
They’d become more like parents to me than my own mother had ever been.
I let the curtain fall back into place and checked my phone. 4:30 AM. Close enough. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot of Rhythm & Motion Dance Studio, I’d had two cups of coffee and was running on pure caffeine and muscle memory. The morning sun was bright and warm, promising a beautiful day, and I tried to let that lift my spirits as I grabbed my dance bag from the passenger seat.
I’d been teaching here for three years now—Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons and evenings, mostly kids’ classes with a few adult beginner sessions mixed in.
“You look like death warmed over,” Bethany announced as I walked through the door.
I flipped her off affectionately and headed for the staff room to drop my bag. Bethany Chen had been my best friend since we’d met at a dance competition when we were fifteen. She was the only person besides the Bakers who knew the full extent of everything I was dealing with. She taught the morning classes here and worked the early shifts at the bakery with me on Mondays and Fridays.
“Rough night?” she asked, following me into the staff room. She was already in her dance clothes—black leggings and a loose tank top, her long black hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
“Rough brain,” I corrected, changing into my own teaching outfit. “Couldn’t shut it off.”
“The usual suspects?”
“The usual suspects.”
She made a sympathetic noise and handed me a protein bar from her bag. “Eat. You need fuel if you’re going to survive the tiny terrors today.”
I smiled despite myself. “The tiny terrors” were our affectionate name for the four-to-six-year-old ballet class I taught on Tuesday afternoons. They were adorable and exhausting in equal measure.
“How’s your dad?” Bethany asked, her voice gentler now.
“Same. Passed out on the couch when I left this morning.” I took a bite of the protein bar, even though I wasn’t hungry. “I left him water and aspirin. And a note reminding him about his AA meeting tonight, not that he’ll go.”
“Em—”
“I know.” I held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. That I can’t save him if he doesn’t want to be saved. That I need to take care of myself. That I’m enabling him. I know, Beth. I know all of it.”
She pulled me into a hug, and I let myself lean into her for a moment, drawing strength from her solid presence. “I just worry about you,” she said softly. “You’re carrying so much.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a work in progress.”
She pulled back and studied my face, her dark eyes concerned. “Have you heard from Jackson lately?”
My jaw tightened. “He came by his parents’ house on Sunday. I was there working on a new routine in the studio, and he just... showed up. Tried to apologize again. Told me he’s been ‘doing a lot of thinking’ and he realizes now that he was wrong.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that six months of thinking doesn’t erase five years of manipulation and emotional abuse. And then I told him to leave.”
“Good.” Bethany’s voice was fierce. “He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve anything from you.”
“His parents keep hoping we’ll work it out,” I said quietly. “I can see it in their eyes sometimes. They loved us together. They thought we’d get married.”
“They love you,” Bethany corrected. “They’re not hoping you’ll get back together because they miss Jackson and you as a couple. They’re hoping you’ll find happiness, period. And they know their son fucked that up.”
I wanted to believe her. Most days, I did. But there was still that small, insidious voice in the back of my head—the one that sounded suspiciously like Jackson—that whispered maybe I was the problem. Maybe I was too broken, too damaged, too much work.
“Come on,” Bethany said, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s go teach some tiny humans how to plié. Nothing puts life in perspective like a four-year-old who can’t tell left from right.”
The day passed in a blur of classes—tiny terrors, then intermediate jazz, then advanced contemporary. By the time my last class ended at six, my body was pleasantly exhausted and my mind was, mercifully, too tired to spiral. This was why I loved teaching. Why I loved dance. For a few hours, I could lose myself in the music and movement, could focus entirely on helping my students find their own joy in it.
I changed back into my street clothes—jeans and a soft gray sweater—and said goodbye to Bethany, who was staying late to work on choreography for an upcoming recital. The drive home took twenty minutes, and I spent it mentally preparing myself for whatever state I’d find Dad in.
But when I pulled onto our street, I was distracted by the sight of Darren Baker in his front yard, trimming the hedges that lined their property. He was in his usual weekend attire—jeans and a flannel shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly mussed—and he looked up with a warm smile when he heard my car.
I parked in our driveway and walked over, grateful for the excuse to delay going inside.
“Hey, Mr. B,” I called out.
“Emmalyn! How many times do I have to tell you to call me Darren?” He set down his hedge trimmers and pulled off his gardening gloves, pulling me into a quick hug. He smelled like fresh-cut grass and the woodsy aftershave he’d worn for as long as I’d known him.
“At least a thousand more times,” I said, grinning. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Well, I could, but Courtney would tell me to stop being dramatic.” He studied my face with the same concerned expression I’d gotten from Bethany earlier. “You look tired, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
I shrugged, not trusting myself to say much. Darren had a way of seeing through my defenses, and I was too worn down today to maintain them.
“That good, huh?” He jokes then squeezed my shoulder asking. “Your dad doing any better?”
“Define better,” I said, trying for humor and failing.
Before Darren could respond, the front door opened and Courtney emerged, her face lighting up when she saw me. “Emmalyn! I thought I heard your voice!”
Courtney Baker was one of those women who seemed to radiate warmth. She was in her early fifties, with kind blue eyes and blonde hair that was starting to show threads of silver. She’d been a nurse before retiring last year, and she still had that caretaker energy—always making sure everyone around her was fed, comfortable, taken care of.
She crossed the yard and pulled me into a tight hug, the kind that made my throat tighten with emotion. “How’s my girl?” she asked softly.
“Hanging in there,” I managed.
She pulled back but kept her hands on my shoulders, her eyes searching mine. “And your dad? Is he—”
“He’s okay. Same as usual.” I didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to see the worry deepen in her eyes. “I’m managing.”
“You shouldn’t have to manage,” Courtney said gently. “You’re twenty-one years old, Em. You should be out living your life, not playing parent to your father.”
“He’s my dad. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Let him face the consequences of his choices,” Darren said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Let him hit rock bottom so he can start climbing back up.”
We’d had this conversation before. Many times. And I knew they were right—logically, intellectually, I knew they were right. But knowing something and being able to act on it were two different things.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I’m working on it.”
Courtney’s expression softened, and she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so maternal it made my chest ache. “We just love you, sweetheart. We want to see you happy.”
“I know. I love you guys too.”
“Have you eaten dinner?” Courtney asked, already moving into problem-solving mode. “I made lasagna. There’s plenty—”
“I’m okay, really. I should probably get inside and check on Dad.”
“The offer for dinner stands,” she said. “Anytime. You know that.”
“I know. Thank you. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” Darren said firmly, pulling me into a quick hug.
Courtney exchanged a glance with Darren, and I recognized that look—the one that meant they were about to gently push me toward something they thought I needed.
“Have you been using the studio lately?” Courtney asked carefully. “The one in the summer house?”
I shook my head. “Not much. I’ve been so busy with work and—”
“Em,” Darren said softly, “sometimes you need to let yourself just... dance. Let it all out. No teaching, no performing. Just you.”
Courtney nodded. “That space is yours. You know that, right? Whenever you need it.”
I felt something tight in my chest loosen slightly. “Maybe... maybe I could use it tomorrow? If that’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” Courtney said immediately, squeezing my hand. “It’s always okay. That studio is yours, sweetheart. Anytime you need to escape, to breathe, to just be—it’s there for you.”
We talked for a few more minutes—about the dance recital coming up, about a funny story Courtney had from her volunteer work at the community center, about nothing and everything—before I finally excused myself and headed home.
The house was quiet when I walked in. Dad was still on the couch, still passed out, an empty bottle on the floor beside him. I stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking at him—at the man who used to take me to father-daughter dances, who used to help me with my math homework, who used to be whole.
Then I walked to the kitchen, pulled out the leftover chicken I’d made yesterday, and heated myself up a plate. I ate standing at the counter, looking out the window at the Bakers’ house, at the warm lights glowing in their windows.
I finished my dinner, checked on Dad one more time, and headed upstairs to my room. Maybe tonight I’d sleep. Maybe tonight the memories would leave me alone.
But as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan making its endless circles, I knew better.
The past never really let go. It just waited in the dark, patient and persistent, ready to pull you under the moment you closed your eyes.
