Aria

The baby monitor crackled like it had a personal vendetta.

She stared at it from the couch, eyes burning, brain vibrating, energy drink sweating a ring into the borrowed coffee table. The kid had been asleep for forty-two minutes. She knew this because she'd checked the time exactly seventeen times, each one followed by the same thought: If he wakes up again, I am legally allowed to scream into the void.

She didn't, obviously. She just sat there. Again.

The house was spotless in that way that only wealthy people managed no clutter, no personality, no evidence of human struggle. Beige furniture. White walls. Art that looked expensive and said nothing. Somewhere upstairs, a baby slept in a crib that cost more than her monthly rent.

She was being paid fourteen dollars an hour. Fourteen.

She took a sip of her energy drink and immediately regretted it. Her heart did a weird fluttery thing like it was trying to leave her body out of spite. She made a mental note to alternate caffeine sources next time. Maybe coffee. Maybe espresso. Maybe just chewing coffee beans like a deranged squirrel.

The couch dipped beneath her as she leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Her mind did what it always did when it wasn't being actively restrained by spreadsheets or schedules. It wandered straight into the past, dragging resentment along with it like a pet that refused to be house-trained.

She'd been tired for as long as she could remember. Not sleepy tired. Bone tired. Soul tired. The kind of exhaustion that didn't go away after a nap because naps were a theoretical concept she'd heard about once, like unicorns or affordable healthcare.

High school had been the start of it. Dual credit. Honors everything. AP classes stacked like a bad Jenga tower. Her parents had framed it as opportunity.
"Why wait?" her mom had said, smiling the way people smiled when they thought efficiency was the same thing as happiness. "You'll thank us later."
She hadn't thanked them yet.

By sixteen, she was taking college accounting classes in buildings that smelled like printer ink and regret. By seventeen, she was planning her degree path like a military operation. Accounting. Business. Something practical. Something safe. Something that made adults nod approvingly when she said it out loud.
She'd done everything right.

She'd just never stopped.

No summers off. No gap years. No wandering or breathing or figuring out who she was outside of productivity. High school bled straight into college, which bled straight into work, which bled into now-her babysitting for people who talked about dumping a bunch of money into a painting with one squiggle line while paying her less than minimum wage.

The baby monitor stayed silent. Good.

She rubbed her eyes and felt the familiar sting. She'd slept maybe four hours last night. Five if she was being generous. Her brain was already calculating how much sleep she could squeeze in before morning. The answer was never enough.
She thought of her parents, and the feeling twisted the way it always did, sharp and dull at the same time.

Her mom had gotten sick halfway through her first year of college. Cancer. The word had landed in their kitchen like a dropped plate. Loud. Shattering. Permanent.
Her dad had stayed for a while. Long enough to say the right things. Long enough to look tired and hollow and scared. And then one day, he'd packed a bag and left.
He hadn't even taken the coffee maker.

She'd hated him for that. Still did, in quiet moments. But the anger was complicated, layered over grief and something like understanding she didn't want to admit. People broke. He'd broken. That didn't make it okay.

Her mom had tried to be strong. Had insisted she keep going to class. Had told her she was proud. Had smiled through chemo and pain and exhaustion until the smile finally stopped appearing.

When her mom died, the world hadn't paused. Tuition was still due. Assignments still had deadlines. Life, it turned out, did not care.

She finished college because stopping felt worse. Because resting felt dangerous. Because momentum was the only thing holding her together.
The front door opened downstairs.

She sat up instantly, plastering on a smile she'd perfected years ago.

The parents came in smelling like wine and expensive cologne, laughing softly, voices low. They looked relieved to see her, the way people did when someone else had been responsible for their life for a few hours.

"He was great," she said automatically. "Didn't wake up once."
Which was true. Miraculously.

They paid her. Exactly fourteen dollars an hour. No tip. No apology for being late. Just a breezy, "Same time next week?"

She nodded. Because she always did.

Outside, the night air was cold enough to bite. She pulled her jacket tighter and walked to her car, exhaustion settling heavier with every step. By the time she got home, it would be close to midnight.

Her alarm was set for five.
She didn't change it.