Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,48

a hard wake. I’d hit snooze on my alarm five times if there was somewhere I was meant to be. And if there wasn’t, I’d sleep until my body ached; then I’d roll myself out of bed like a deadweight and drag my feet all the way to the shower. I lived a life with very little that excited me.

After I first met Layla, I was eager to wake up. My eyes would open and immediately search her out. If the alarm was set, I’d silence it at the first sound, fearful it would wake her because I wanted to be the thing that woke her. I’d kiss her cheek or drag my fingers up her arm until she smiled. I wanted to see her before she saw me, but I also wanted to be what she woke up to.

Today, I wake up in a similar, yet entirely new way—my skin already buzzing with anticipation before I’m fully alert. My eyes pop open, and I immediately search out Layla, but not because I want to be the thing that wakes her. I want the opposite. I want to slip out of our bed undetected so I can hide in the bathroom and rewatch footage from last night.

I lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower to drown out the noise from my phone, and then I lean against the counter. I skip the footage back to the moment Willow walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. I rewatch my entire conversation with Willow, just to make sure it actually happened and I didn’t dream the whole thing.

I didn’t dream it at all.

I close my phone app and stare into the bathroom mirror. It’s insane how two mornings ago, I woke up confident in my view of the world. But now that confidence has vanished and has been replaced by curiosity, fascination, and a new, intense need to uncover everything else in this universe that I’m unaware of.

Knowing there’s more to this life than meets the eye makes everything around me feel insignificant. My career feels insignificant. My love for Layla feels like it matters less to the timeline of my life than it did two days ago.

Most of the things that have ever caused me stress all seem so unimportant now that I know there’s so much more out there than what I’ve led myself to believe.

My own existence feels less important to me now.

My priorities have shifted in the last twenty-four hours, yet I have no idea what my new priority is. It’s been Layla for so long now, but even everything Layla and I have been through feels less traumatic when you consider the possibility that not only do other humans have it worse than we do—but other realms of existence have it worse than we do.

I always tell Layla everything, but I’m still not sure I want to bring this up to her. But there’s a part of me that believes Layla knowing the truth about this could somehow help her. If she knew for a fact that there were other planes of existence than the one we’re currently in, maybe what happened to us would feel less significant. Maybe, in some warped way, this would be just as intriguing to her as it is to me, and it could possibly help with everything she’s been struggling through.

It has certainly freed me from the emptiness I’ve been feeling lately. I’m not sure what it is I’m filled with now, maybe just curiosity and a shit ton of questions. But it’s been a while since I’ve woken up with this much enthusiasm for the day.

I’m ready to speak to Willow again.

I look around the bathroom, wondering if Willow is in here right now. Does she watch us all the time? What does she do all night if she doesn’t sleep? What is she doing right now?

I have so many questions for her; I don’t even want to waste time on a shower. I turn off the water and slip out of the bathroom. Layla is still asleep on her stomach.

I leave her in bed and go down to the kitchen. I start a pot of coffee and look around the kitchen, wondering if she’s here. We need a way to communicate when she’s not using Layla.

“Are you in here?” I ask.

I say it quietly because I’m not sure it’ll ever feel normal—talking to nothing.

I don’t get any type of response, so I repeat myself. “Willow? Are