I can't recall when it started happening, but I had been waking up later than I should have been. Maybe it was when I started staying out late, trying to meet up with different guys and grabbing a feel for what it was like to regain free rein. Maybe it was when Miles got mixed up in this mess, leaving me feeling so fulfilled with adoration I would drive two hours there and back just to get another taste. Maybe it was when I moved in with Rosie, and couldn't sleep knowing life was so much different 6 months ago. Maybe it was even before then, when I just couldn't keep up anymore.

And as if staying up wasn't enough of a problem, it was the job of getting out of bed as well. Some mornings, like this one, I stared up at the ceiling. Other times I would try to close my eyes and force myself to go back to sleep, where I could dream just a little longer and, maybe, if at all possible, just relive the good memories I could still hold onto, or the ones that could have been.

Every morning it was the same. Even after eight, nine, ten hours of sleep, I woke up dreary. My body couldn't get enough sleep to feel the same as it did when I could take it to bed. I knew it would start slow, pushing myself into a sitting position, rubbing away at my eyes that squinted to a brightly lit bedroom. At the far end of the room, sitting across from my bed, my TV sat on my drawers, and the reflection staring back was almost horrifying. I looked like a serial killer. Or even a meth dealer. The amount of tangles in my hair and the dead look in my eyes were enough to accuse me of either crime.

Slowly, I slide out my legs from under the covers. When my feet hit the hardwood floor, I stand up, feeling my back and legs crack as I stretch them out and turn around to adjust the covers on my bed.

But I freeze, noting a dark brown patch on the light blue sheets.

And I sigh, annoyed. Because not only do I have to rip my bed apart and throw everything that's been soiled into the washing machine, but this also means I'm clocked out for whatever sexual encounter that could have happened in the following 72 hours. A pause in my plan, and a delay in advancing further. I grab the sheets and pull them off my bed, dumping the duvea on the floor, and the pillows as well.

I leave my room, dragging the heap in my arms, letting it trail behind me through the narrow hallway. I keep cursing under my breath, even as I walk into the compacted laundry room, shifting the load into one arm to open the top of the washer. I don't even recall why I'm so mad about this. Why am I so mad about this? Is it because I already have a couple of suitors lined up? A couple of chances to complete my plan? It's not like I'm in a rush to complete this. I have almost all the time in the world outside of work, and visiting Miles, and trying hard to hide this secret from Miles.

I think of Miles. I haven't heard from him for a few days. This realisation only just hits me, and I go from annoyed to sad, all in the space of twenty seconds. Being a bleeding woman is such a bitch. I turn on the washer.

I walk out, taking a glance into the open living area, noting how empty it is. The sun shines through the front windows, casting a glow over the TV on the back wall. I frown at the glare that's already coating it, even when the damn thing isn't on. I always wonder why Rosie would put the TV right across the room, where the sun could block the view almost perfectly to whatever picture is on screen.

'We have block-out curtains.' Would always be her response, and my mouth mimiks her usual reply in mocking towards her. Even when she wasn't in the room, I always felt the need to mock her, even spiritually.

And as I'm mentalling mocking my roommate, hoping that the messanger Gods would bless her with it in some way or another, I realise how quiet the place is, since I haven't seen, or heard, a second of her presence since I woke up.

"Rosie?" I speak out, letting my voice echo through the house, especially down the hallway, with wooden floors and a heavily tiled bathroom to bounce off of. I take a small walk down the hall, towards her room, where her door rests slightly agape. Next to it a hallway table sits, one she bought from Kmart that's decorated with a dusty copper bowl, with tealight candles inside that look as though they should be floating, a tall, dusted candle holder, looking like it was fresh off a blacksmith's forging table, and three succulents in matching copper pots (lightly covered in dust, of course). Underneath is a stack of heavy-looking, chunky books, and a couple of magazines. I don't take the time to read what they say, even if I spot a magazine on top that says 'The $49 Orgasm' as one of the article pointers.

I push open Rosie's door, letting myself into a sunfilled room. Her block-out curtains have been pushed back, letting the bright room glow. Her bed, a mess with the sheets everywhere, sits in the middle, and on her left, a vanity table sits with brushes and cosmetics littered about. On her right, however, another table sits. A study desk, by the looks of things, but it's covered in books and papers, and had about a hundred envelopes ripped open and contents spilled out onto the hard surface. Clothes are thrown over the rail at the end of her bed, even some covering the floor. Yet, despite all this mess, Rosie is nowhere to be seen. I can only guess, knowing her timetable, she is either with Dan, or at work. One of the two, at least.

I walk back, bringing the door back to a close, but leaving it ajar, just how I found it. Across from Rosie's room is our bathroom, and glancing inside, the sun is also lighting up the grubby white tiles to make it glow. I spot my towel hanging on the wall rack, and figure that it's a good time for a shower, especially since I now had an unexpected visitor to deal with.