It’s the same sound every morning. Sharp. Unforgiving. Like the world reminding her she’s still here.

She groans before she’s even fully awake. Her head pounds a familiar rhythm. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth.

The colored lights she forgot to unplug blink weakly from the corner of her room. Pink. Blue. Pink. Blue. Like evidence from a crime scene.

For a long moment, she just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Letting the weight settle back onto her chest.

Then rent. The word drags her upright.

Her room tilts. Then steadies. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands.

The walk to the bathroom is obstacle course. Discarded jeans. Last night’s boots. A jacket she doesn’t remember taking off.

The shower hisses to life. Steam fills the small space.

Hot water hits her shoulders. It doesn’t help. It never helps. The exhaustion is bone-deep now. And underneath it—there. Always there.

Robin smiling at Vickie like she hung the moon.

Y/N squeezes her eyes shut. Stays under the water until it runs cold.

By 6:45 she’s dressed. Coffee in hand. Headache lingering like a bad decision.

Outside, Hawkins is waking up. Birds. Distant cars. A lawnmower somewhere.

Y/N wishes she could sleep through all of it.