Sleepwalk

Chapter 1

I blinked hard, then rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my palms. Neither did a damn thing. The dull ache behind them had settled in hours ago, a hot pressure that pulsed in time with the throb at my temples. I stared back at the screen anyway. The spreadsheet was a wall of numbers, black text on a white background that seemed to buzz and smear the longer I looked at it.

My gaze flicked down to the bottom right corner of the monitor. 1:27 AM.

I could cry. Honestly, I was close. But instead, I just let out a long, dry yawn, jaw cracking as I slumped further in my desk chair.

Every night this week had followed the same routine. Wake up tired, push through the day, then settle in for another round of self-inflicted punishment in the name of budget season. Which apparently meant trading sleep for caffeine so my boss’s boss’s bosses could sleep like babies and wake up fresh for their polished reviews and presentations, all built off the materials we were slowly bleeding out.

I flicked my mouse to wake up the tiny Skype window tucked in the corner of the screen. A few of my coworkers were still online, the little green dots next to their names glowing like sad little beacons of shared misery. At least I wasn’t alone in the suffering.

A rustle broke the silence—soft footsteps padding down the hall from the bedroom. The sound hit me with a pang of guilt. Cassie didn’t stay over all that often anymore. When we first started dating, we’d spend full weeks together, bouncing between each other’s places. Lately, though, that rhythm had slipped. I thought getting back into it might help. But instead of spending time with her, I’d been locking myself in the office, chasing numbers.

The footsteps grew louder, moving toward the doorway. I straightened a little, already rehearsing an apology in my head—something about needing just one more hour, maybe two, and promising I’d come to bed. But she didn’t stop at the doorway, which sat cracked open. I caught a glimpse of her walking right past.

Huh.

The bathroom was off the bedroom—she was heading the opposite direction. Where else would she be going at this hour?

I glanced down at the mug by my keyboard. Only a smudge of cold coffee left at the bottom. I needed more fuel anyway. Might as well stretch my legs and see what she was up to.

I stood from my chair and stepped out of the office, coffee mug in hand. As I turned into the hallway, I spotted Cassie just a few feet ahead, shuffling forward with slow, dragging steps. Her feet scuffed along the floor, and every few paces she stumbled slightly, catching herself without seeming to notice.

“Hey, bun,” I called gently after her. No response.

“Bun,” I said again, a little louder.

Still nothing. She didn’t even turn around. My brow knit together as I moved quickly to catch up. Her eyes were half-open, barely. There was a slackness to her posture, the kind of drooping heaviness that made it look like her body was moving without any input from her brain. She just kept walking, unfazed, completely unresponsive.

“Cassie?” I tried once more, stepping in closer and waving a hand in front of her face.

Nothing.

A ripple of unease passed through me. She was sleepwalking—she had to be. Since when did she do that? We hadn’t spent the night together in a while, but still, it seemed like something I would’ve known about. Could that have changed in just a few months?

I scrambled to remember what you were supposed to do. You weren’t supposed to wake them up—that much I was sure of. But then what? Just… let them roam?

Cassie’s steps veered slightly and she bumped her shoulder against the wall. My arm shot out instinctively to steady her, but she barely reacted, just shifted with the contact and kept going. She let out a soft sigh and brought one hand to her stomach, pressing her palm against it. She rubbed slow, absentminded circles over the front of her belly—one that had grown noticeably fuller in the past few months, softening in a way I hadn’t quite addressed out loud yet.

Was she hungry? Maybe thirsty?

Whatever it was, I wasn’t going back to work anytime soon. I fell in step behind her, keeping close.

She wandered into the kitchen and made her way to the breakfast table, easing herself into one of the chairs. She sat there in the dark, hands resting in her lap, her whole body still except for the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

I flipped on the pendant lights above the island. Warm light spilled over the room, throwing soft shadows across the cabinets and countertop. Cassie didn’t react. She sat motionless for a few seconds, then started mumbling something under her breath. The words were quiet, slurred, as if she were having a conversation I wasn’t invited to. I couldn't make any of it out.

I set my mug down on the counter. The caffeine didn’t matter anymore—I was fully awake now. Cassie, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t.

She pushed her chair back with a low scrape and stood up. I watched, tense, half-expecting her to wander off again. But instead of drifting toward the hallway, she picked up the chair and started walking toward me.

I thought, just for a second, that maybe she’d seen me, waking up, acknowledging me, something. But she didn’t even look my way. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, as she walked right past me.

She carried the chair over to the fridge, opened it, and set the chair down directly in front of it before plopping back into the seat with a dull thud.

I stepped toward her slowly, keeping my movements quiet, watching as she plucked one of my protein yogurt cups from the fridge. Without hesitation, she peeled the lid off and gave the cup a firm squeeze, pushing the yogurt up to the rim before diving in—no spoon, of course.

I couldn’t help but smile a little, incredulous. That was a habit I’d called her out for before, teasing her about being too lazy to use a utensil. And here she was, doing it in her sleep.

She made quick work of the first one, slurping from the cup with rhythmic, greedy pulls. When the yogurt stopped rising easily, she licked around the rim, dragging her tongue along the plastic edge, but didn’t bother scraping the bottom. Her sleepwalking mind apparently wasn’t that thorough. She dropped the cup into the trash bin beside the fridge and grabbed another.

Same technique. Lid off, squeeze, slurp. She seemed happier with this one, her mouth stretching slightly in what looked like a sleepy grin as she licked it clean. At least this time she got closer to the bottom before tossing the cup aside.

Then, without pause, she reached in again—this time pulling out a pack of tortillas. She peeled one from the stack and folded it in half before biting directly into the plain bread. Her jaw moved slowly, methodically, each chew heavy and deliberate. Her eyelids fluttered once, like she was savoring it in some unconscious way.

As she chewed, she set the half-eaten tortilla in her lap and began fumbling with a couple slices of cheese, still wrapped in crinkled plastic. She tore them open and slapped them onto the remaining tortilla with no real aim. A second later, she added a fistful of sliced turkey, deli paper and all, her fingers mashing it into the fold.

I took a step forward, instinctively grimacing as she arranged the sloppy stack on her thigh like it was a proper plate. Then she reached for the bottle of mayonnaise.

“Wait, hang on—” I rushed forward just in time to peel the strip of waxy deli paper from the turkey before she smeared mayo over everything. She didn’t even glance at me. Just squeezed a thick, gloppy line of it down the center and brought the wrap straight to her mouth.

She took a bite so big it forced her cheeks to puff out slightly. Mayo oozed onto her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes stayed glazed, unblinking, as she chewed noisily, slow and satisfied.

I hovered beside her, unsure of what to do. She didn’t seem in distress. If anything, she looked perfectly at ease, focused entirely on the food in front of her. I mean, midnight snacks weren’t unheard of. It wasn’t exactly alarming. Except, of course, for the whole sleep-eating thing. And almost eating wax paper.

I probably could’ve stopped her. Should’ve, maybe. But I hesitated. Would she get startled? Upset? Could it hurt her brain or something, snapping her out of it mid-bite? Did people like this even remember what they did in their sleep?

Cassie reached into the fridge door and grabbed the jar of pickles. She struggled with the lid for a second, gripping it tighter until it finally popped free. She fished out a spear and bit into it with a loud crunch. Her shoulders dropped a little, like the taste brought some kind of release. A low, pleased sound escaped her throat as she turned back to her wrap, switching between the two—bite of pickle, bite of wrap, chew, repeat.

When both were gone, she leaned forward, picked up a bottle of Tropicana, and unscrewed the cap. She lifted it straight to her lips and chugged, her throat working in deep, steady gulps. When she was done, she let out a long breath and a soft burp—low and half-sigh—and then, surprisingly, twisted the cap back on and returned the bottle to the fridge with sleepy precision.

She eased back into the chair, her body settling with a soft creak of the wood. Her hands dropped to her belly and began moving slowly, palms smoothing over the slight curve that now bulged more prominently beneath her shirt.

“Mm no, that’s not what I said,” Cassie mumbled suddenly.

Her voice startled me—not loud, but unexpected. She sounded half-annoyed, half-bored, as if in the middle of a conversation. She was talking to no one. That much was obvious. But still, I responded.

“What?” I asked instinctively, leaning down next to her.

She nodded slowly, mid-yawn, as if whoever she was talking to had just said something dull. Her eyelids fluttered again but never opened fully. I was fascinated, admittedly more intrigued than concerned at this point.

“Cassie, baby. Could you wake up? You’re asleep right now,” I said, reaching toward her gently.

No acknowledgment. Not even a twitch in my direction.

“Yeah, sure, I can have some of that,” she muttered a moment later, completely ignoring me.

I followed her gaze, what little of it there was, as she reached into the fridge again. This time, she grabbed the Tupperware container from dinner earlier, the one we’d packed with leftover penne pomodoro and slices of Italian sausage. She cracked the lid open with both thumbs and immediately dug in—no fork, no hesitation. Her fingers sank into the pasta and brought a couple of pieces straight to her mouth.

She nodded as she chewed, gesturing vaguely toward the container like she was complimenting someone on a job well done. Her approval was clear, even in this dreamlike daze.

I let out a quiet laugh. I could practically hear what she’d say if she were actually awake: ‘Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff,’ or something like that. It was fascinating how typical her mannerisms were even as she was sleepwalking. Or sleep eating, rather. She picked out a slice of sausage next and popped it into her mouth, chewing noisily.

“It’s just cheese,” she muttered, in response to nothing, then grabbed the container of Kraft grated parmesan from the fridge door. She twisted off the lid and shook it liberally over the pasta, the powdered cheese dusting everything like snow. Far too much. But she didn’t seem to notice, or care.

She went right back to eating, fingers now glossy with red sauce and sticky cheese powder. I stood there for another moment, then sighed and pulled a chair over. If she was going to keep going like this, I might as well sit down and keep an eye on her. I slid the chair beside her and sat, watching her work her way through the leftovers.

I had no idea how long this would last, or how often she did this. Was this a one-time thing? A new habit? Still, I couldn’t just leave her. What if she choked? Was that even possible during sleep eating?

Cassie kept at it, undeterred. She plucked another chunk of penne, then another, alternating with pieces of sausage in no particular order. The container was deep—not massive, but enough for two solid servings, maybe more. But she didn’t slow down. Her hand dipped in and out of the container like a metronome, mouth working steadily as red sauce smeared faintly along her fingertips and the corners of her lips.

Her face never changed. That same half-glazed, half-contented expression. Almost like she was tasting it—really tasting it—even if her brain wasn’t fully online.

I kept waiting for her to stop, to reach some threshold. But the level of pasta kept dipping lower and lower, and still she went on.

Finally, after picking through the last few pieces at the bottom and licking some sauce off her fingers, she leaned back into the chair with a soft, satisfied grunt. Her belly pushed slightly against the fabric of her shirt now, rounded from the amount she’d packed away, and she exhaled deeply.

She licked her fingers slowly, one by one, as though savoring the last traces of sauce and cheese. Her other hand stayed planted on her belly, rubbing in small, absentminded circles. The movement looked almost affectionate, like she was congratulating herself.

Then, without warning, she reached into the fridge and pulled out the carton of milk. She brought it straight to her lips and began to chug. Her hand kept gliding across the firm swell of her stomach as she drank, tilting her head back and gulping down several cups’ worth without pause.

“Mmm,” she moaned into the carton, the sound thick and lazy. A low, contented rumble.

She finally lowered the carton and drew in a breath through her nose, short and heavy. “Whew,” she panted, cheeks puffed a little from the effort.

After capping the milk and returning it to the fridge, she stood up abruptly with a grunt. The sudden motion startled me, I hadn’t expected her to move that fast. She stepped toward the pantry, brushing against my knee as she passed.

“Oh, sorry friend,” she muttered, barely turning her head. She didn’t even slow down. “It’s packed in here.”

Her shirt had started to cling more now, the fabric damp with body heat and stretched tighter across her middle. The dome of her belly pushed out clearly beneath the hem, and the soft love handles at her sides pressed faintly into the fabric. I hadn’t realized how much weight she’d put on until just now. Not really.

She skimmed the pantry shelf with glassy eyes, then landed on a party-sized bag of Sun Chips—half empty, crinkled near the top. “Perfect,” she mumbled, then made her way back to the fridge, tugging open the jar of salsa without hesitation.

She dug in like a machine. Scoop, bite, chew. One chip after another disappeared into her mouth, dunked deep into the salsa and shoved in whole. The rhythm of it was almost hypnotic.

I caught the time on the microwave out of the corner of my eye. It was late. Or… later. Somehow, impossibly, she was still going.