She's sitting on the edge of her bed, knees pulled into her chest, staring at the wallpaper she doesn't recognize. The bed isn't as soft as hers at home, but they never really are. She has the best bed in the world. While her travelmate sleeps, she's awake, as she always is. It's not necessarily jet lag, as much as it is insomnia. It's always insomnia.

It's why she wishes she had something on her. In her. She usually self medicates; traveling with someone who couldn't be more different than you if they tried, generally results in a change in habits. Maybe it's for the better. Maybe she doesn't need it, or anything. Anyone. Just herself, the ones that truly love her, and her job. It's these things that she thinks about when she's feeling that twitch that she can't fix, when her leg starts bouncing uncontrollably. When she can't sleep. When she doesn't want to eat, because she's got to keep the same figure she had in the first season. When she already needs to look like she hasn't had any rest anyway.

The sun rises sooner than she expects, but at the same time, she's been waiting for it all night. The thoughts bouncing around in her head work better than any stimulant could, keeping that low hum going, the one that is loudest when she closes her eyes. She slowly stands up from the bed, her bare feet padding across the floor. It's cold outside, but she's okay with that. It's what she misses most from home, the home she's been away from longer than not. Her childhood memories tend to stretch out longer, feeling like it was an eternity in Missouri, waiting for her life to start. When she didn't have responsibilities, or habits, or lovers, or jobs. When the only thing she had to worry about was how much living she could do before bedtime was enforced. Those chilly nights are what she misses most, when she snuggled up with her brother's dog that he had left behind. When there were seasons, and some kind of indication of passing time, besides her looking older, and her license plates expiring.

She plucks a sweater from the closet, folding it quietly so she doesn't wake up her roommate. Packing her clothes away feels familiar, considering most of her life is spent packing and unpacking suitcases. She's got a system, using the trick her oldest brother learned from the Marines. Rolling her clothes up makes them take up less space, and doesn't leave a weird crease in the middle of her shirts. She packs everything away except one outfit, one pair of heels. She strips down to nothing, packing her pajamas away too.

The hot water helps her to feel more human, her knuckles moving easier. She doesn't talk about the fact that she has rheumatoid arthritis, because no one has to know. It sounds like an old person disease, but she's barely in her thirties. Doctor Mom knows what to tell her to try, as much as someone without an acual medical degree can. Just another thing, just another excuse to self medicate. She's falling apart more than she thinks, more than she lets on, but far less than others in her position. She's a stone's throw away from living a healthy life, keeping in shape. Not drinking, smoking, or doing drugs. But...those are the fun things, she says, and we only have one life to live. She's managing it, you know? In many ways it's keeping her moving, physically and emotionally.

It's why she can't sleep now, trying to alienate her friend from her terrible lifestyle. She doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable. She doesn't want her to see just how bad it really is. She wants to show herself it's not as bad as it could be. But her body says otherwise, and she finds herself heaving in the shower. She doesn't have anything in her stomach, but at least now she knows for sure. Her head spins as she leans against the shower wall, skin sliding against the wet surface until she sits on the shower floor. The water isn't as hot down here, but maybe that's what she needs. Her heart is thudding hard, but no faster than usual. She could see her heart beating in her chest, if she wasn't shaking so hard, if she wasn't resting her head back against the wall with her eyes closed.

She gives it a few minutes before she turns off the shower, carefully pulling herself out and wrapping up in a towel. Before she can leave the bathroom, she hears her travelmate stir, and she wonders if she might've woken her up. Or maybe it's just fortunate timing. She brushes her teeth and goes about her morning like any other day, opening the bathroom door a crack to ask about getting breakfast before they go to the airport. She's far from home, far from going home, and she's okay with that; she's with good company. The kind of company she needs.