Y/N hasn't slept — not really — in over a year, not since her father died suddenly. Grief hasn't shown up the way she expected; it's not tears so much as the nights, an unbearable quiet that never used to unsettle her and now feels like it's waiting for something. Her mother knows exactly what the insomnia is and where it comes from, has watched her daughter go hollow with it for a year, and worries without knowing how to fix it. Nobody else does — not the neighbor, not Wells. To them, Y/N is just prickly and unreadable; they have no idea what's underneath it.