I woke up to sunlight pouring through my window, and a wonderful, empty calm in my head. No jarring visions of handsome, unsettling strangers. No shimmering auras. No frantic whispers. Just the gentle sound of birds outside and the distant clink of my dad making coffee.
My internal monologue: See? Logic wins. My parents were right. It was just a weird, stress-induced trauma dream caused by my subconscious digging up some old family drama. I've been so consumed with Algebra II, my brain manufactured a handsome distraction just to mess with me.
The entire drama of yesterday felt distant and slightly embarrassing—like a bad scene from a teen movie. I felt a surge of relief. My destiny wasn't to solve some ancient occult mystery; it was to pass this next history test on the French Revolution. Much less pressure.
I went through my morning routine with a lightness I hadn't felt in days. I pulled on my favorite jeans, grabbed my History textbook, and headed downstairs. My mom had made pancakes, my dad was reading the paper, and the kitchen smelled like butter and maple syrup.
Pure, beautiful normalcy
"Morning, sleepyhead," Dad said, not looking up.
"Ready for Napoleon?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, grabbing a stack of pancakes. I even managed a laugh at my mom's terrible joke about King Louis XVI. I was fine. Everything was fine. I finished breakfast, hugged my parents' goodbye, and walked out the door, ready to face the mundane challenges of a Thursday morning.