Crawling back into bed, I lie on my side, facing the empty spot.

And I don’t fall asleep until the pale glow of sunrise peeks through the window.

My eyes creep open to sunlight streaming in through the partially drawn curtains of my bedroom window. Groggily, I blink myself awake, feeling around the bed.

Something feels off, and I know what that means…

I may have walked in my sleep.

I know I do it. I’ve suffered from sleepwalking for years. Back when it started, it was nerve-racking, waking up not in my bed. James took me to a doctor a few times, but nothing has really helped. I accepted it long ago. And though I have no recollection of what I do, wandering around at night unconscious, I always have this feeling when I wake up knowing I’ve done it. Like a dream I can’t quite grasp.

These recollections resonate in my mind… It’s been this way for a long time. And now I can barely even tell where my dreams end and reality begins.

But I haven’t woken up outside of my bed in years. Somehow, I always seem to find my way back, which is interesting, to say the least.

Rubbing my eyes, I fling my legs out of bed, cringing at how bright it is outside. The sun is reflecting off the snow, blinding me even through the curtains. I make my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a shower.

Once I’m done and dressed in black jeans and a flannel, I head downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs rumbling my stomach. I swing into the kitchen, where James is standing in front of the stove, poking at things with a spatula.

Pushing away the awkwardness I always feel around him lately, I chirp, “Good morning.”

He does a little nod over his shoulder, nothing but a grunt for a response. Pretty on-brand for my adoptive father.

Pulling out a chair, I take a seat at the island, watching him intently. I do most of the cooking in our household, because I love it. Cooking is my favorite thing, baking in particular, and I love trying out new recipes on my guardian. I get no protest whatsoever from James, since he loves to eat, same as me. We have powerful appetites between the two of us.

But if it were left up to James, we’d eat bacon and eggs for every meal, because it’s pretty much all he can cook. Maybe that’s part of the reason I learned so young. I wanted to make sure he got a proper meal. And myself, too… But I guess I just enjoy doting on him.

My jaw tenses, reminding myself for the millionth time that it’s strictly familial. Nothing more.

The room is devoid of conversation. The only sounds are those of the food cooking and James cleaning up as he goes. When he’s done, he brings over two plates, setting one down in front of me, then taking a seat himself across the island with his own, immediately digging in.