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Every so often, she would wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare, heart-pounding, pillow wet with sweat, the fabric of her pajamas sticking to her body as if reminding her of the years she spent hiding her patterns. Every time, she knew this was it. Her good fortune had run out, and now she would have to either hide herself again, or cope with the disdain and rejection of the two she most loved.
“Rumi…” came a sleeping voice, also every time. Sometimes it was Zoey, sometimes it was Mira, always it was one of them.
“Sorry,” Rumi breathed, vividly aware of her heart still pounding against her chest. She didn’t mind apologizing, but she hated how she felt doing it. She hated feeling like— like this time, for sure, it would go wrong, and she’d again be—be—
“You’re okay,” Zoey murmured, grabbing her hand and pulling her back down onto bed just as Mira stretched an arm around her and muttered, “It’s all right.”
Every time the same answer.
You’re okay. It’s all right.
Insanity was going through the same thing over and over and expecting a patently impossible different result.
Well, if that was the case, she hoped she'd never be proven sane.