Liam woke up, arms outstretched in a slow, deliberate motion—one arm, then the other—forming a tired V-shape against the ceiling. A yawn unfurled from his lips, long and drawn out as if his body resisted the inevitability of the day. Then stillness. A pause. His eyes slipped shut again.
The bed cradled him like a soft prison, warm, familiar, shaped perfectly to his body's grooves. It held him too well, as if whispering that nothing outside these blankets was worth it. And maybe it wasn't. Here, in this quiet space between sleep and wakefulness, there were no expectations, no responsibilities, no moments waiting to be ruined. Just peace.
A peace that shattered in an instant.
The alarm tore through the room, shrill and merciless, a war drum rattling his senses. His breath hitched. His hand shot out on instinct, a single swift motion silencing the machine with practiced precision.
Silence.
For a moment, he let it linger, savoring the illusion that he could simply stay here—that time itself might forget about him if he lay still enough. Why did it always have to be like this? Why couldn't life grant him just a little more time?
Then the overhead light flickered on, its brightness stabbing into his barely opened eyes.
"Get up!" his mother sang, her voice cutting through the morning's fragile calm like nails on a chalkboard.
Liam groaned, rolling onto his side, his limbs like dead weight barely obeying. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow.
"Nope, you're already late! Get moving!" she said, then, with a dramatic sigh, she added, "You can't live in that bed forever, kid."
His mother was a force of nature—always in motion, always ready before anyone else. A woman whose presence filled a room, whether through the sound of her voice or the scent of her morning coffee. She had the uncanny ability to be both nurturing and exasperating in equal measure, a skill Liam suspected came with years of motherhood. She was in her early forties, her dark curls perpetually pulled back into a loose bun that never quite held together. Faint laugh lines framed her warm brown eyes, and despite the early hour, she carried an energy that Liam found both admirable and exhausting.
Reluctantly, he pushed himself up, blinking against the light. He ran a hand through his dark brown, perpetually messy hair, making it stick up even worse. His hazel eyes were still heavy with sleep, and the reflection in his bedside mirror showed exactly what he felt—groggy, unenthusiastic, just another average eighteen-year-old dragging himself into the day.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face before forcing himself onto his feet. His room was a battlefield of discarded clothes, unfinished homework, and forgotten snacks. A half-empty glass of water sat on his nightstand, condensation long since dried. He grabbed his glasses from the table and slid them on, the world clicking into sharper focus—not that he particularly wanted to see it.
His morning routine started in slow motion. He shuffled to the bathroom, his bare feet cold against the tile. Flicking on the light, he squinted at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a lost cause. He sighed, grabbed a comb, and half-heartedly ran it through, only to give up halfway through and let it fall into its usual unruly state.
Toothbrush in hand, he brushed methodically, staring blankly at the sink. The sound of water running, the rhythmic motion of brushing—it was the only thing grounding him as he tried to force his brain into wakefulness. He spat, rinsed, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his t-shirt before making his way back to his room.
Dressing was another sluggish task. He grabbed a wrinkled hoodie off his chair, gave it a sniff, deemed it acceptable, and pulled it over his head. Jeans next. Socks? He had to dig under his bed for a matching pair. Sneakers? By the door, thankfully.
"Liam!" his mother called again, this time sharper. "You're gonna miss the bus!"
"Yeah, yeah!" he shouted back, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. With one last glance at his unmade bed, the tempting warmth still lingering in its folds, he sighed and trudged downstairs.
The smell of coffee and toast filled the kitchen. His mom stood by the counter, sipping from her mug, already dressed and ready for her own day. She shot him a knowing look as he grabbed a piece of toast from the plate.
"Rough morning?"
"Like every other morning," he muttered, taking a bite.
She smirked. "Maybe if you actually went to bed at a decent hour, waking up wouldn't be so hard."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, that'll fix everything."
She didn't argue, just handed him a packed lunch as he shoved the rest of his toast into his mouth. "Try not to look like a zombie at school, okay?"
He grunted in response and headed for the door, stepping into the morning light. Another day, another routine. He was awake now, but the weight of exhaustion never quite left him.