Sometimes she longs for a peaceful night's sleep. It seems ridiculous that part of the reason why she feels the way she does is due to a lack of sleep, but it's true. If only she could sleep, she knows she'd feel better. Not fully better, of course. She's not that stupid. She knows it's not just about the insomnia, it's more, but the exhaustion doesn't help. The sense that she's walking around in a world where nothing's real and nothing makes any sense.

Then again, things would probably seem that way even if she was operating at full capacity. Things aren't right, she knows it and she hates it and there's nothing she can do about it. She can't change anything. That makes her feel helpless. She used to feel that she had some sense of control over her life, but who's she kidding? She's trapped.

She never asked for this. She came to LA to become famous and instead she ended up working to help the hopeless. At least it was all right back then, in the early days, when all she had to do was file and type and answer the phone, when she could laugh with Doyle, when she didn't care about Angel the way she does now, when everything seemed manageable.

Now she can't leave, she can't stop even if she wanted to. The visions are with her forever, those debilitating visions that have forced her not only to help all those in need of saving, but to feel what they feel. She knows what it feels like to be so scared and terrified that you can't breathe, she knows what it's like to constantly worry about something you can't control. She's experienced everything they have. The memories are seared into her brain and she can't forget them.

They haunt her at night now. She can't sleep. Hasn't in weeks, maybe months. She's not sure. It's just one day after another after another. Each day follows the same routine. She has a vision. She, Wesley and Gunn try to help a victim. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they fail, and every time they fail she knows that if Angel had been there, they could have saved someone.

And their screams wouldn't come to her in the middle of the night, a painful reminder that she wasn't able to help. Because he wasn't there. They need him. She needs him. She needs to know that there's some purpose to all of this. She has the visions, she saves people. Then the pain is worthwhile. The visions happen for a reason. She can handle it then, because everything slots into place like a jigsaw puzzle, and she feels that she can deal with not being a famous movie star if she's accomplished something.

She hasn't been accomplishing much of anything lately. She hasn't even been able to help Angel. She can't get through to her friend. Her friend? Is he even that anymore? She often contemplated what it would be like to be more than friends. Now all that seems irrelevant. She just wants Angel back. Her friend. The savior. The one truly good thing in her life.

It scares her that she might not get him back. It scares her that she might never be happy again, that she might have to live in this awful nightmare state for the rest of her life.

She can't sleep. Tosses and turns. Dennis brings her warm milk. It doesn't help. Nothing does. Alcohol leaves her more depressed than ever, those sleeping tablets aren't doing their job. She hears the wail of a woman they weren't able to save. Her head throbs from her last vision.

She can't cope, she can't handle it anymore. If only she could sleep . . . then maybe things wouldn't be so bad.

She hears the door open and close again, and wonders only vaguely who it is. Maybe it's Wesley, come to let her know that he needs her help. He's quiet, probably worrying about waking her. Little does he know about her insomnia. He notices some things, but not all. Angel would notice. Angel knows her too well. Angel would be able to tell if she'd had a bad night's sleep. She's had more than her share of bad nights these last few weeks, and no one seems to realise that she's close to losing it. Between the visions and the lack of sleep and the lack of Angel, she's changed into a completely different person. She doesn't know who she is anymore. She doesn't have a clue. If only she could sleep . . . and wake up the next morning with a fresh start. Maybe if she was allowed to deal with the crap that life dealt her one day at a time, she'd be all right. Instead it's one long endless day and it's not over yet.

She turns over in her bed, and turns again, knowing that it's futile. Whether she curls up into a ball or stretches out on her side, it's not going to help her. Her head still aches, her mind is still focussed on feeling helpless. Her throat aches from unshed tears, the tears she's been holding back all day. Every day it's like this, nothing ever changes.

The tall man slipping quietly into her bedroom isn't Wesley. She twists again to look at Angel. Or is he Angelus? She doesn't have a clue what he's been up to. For all she knows, he's evil.

Her hand reaches for the cross underneath her bed, until she thinks better of it. Let him do it. Let him end this for her. It's an impulsive decision but she can't say she hasn't thought about it before. If he's evil, then there's no point to any of it, is there?

He sits down on the bed, and his eyes meet her bloodshot ones. She sees her friend. He's in there. She recognises the person she's grown to love in those eyes. She trusts him. He begins to stroke her hair, gently, his fingers pushing it back from her face. The motion soothes her and yet brings the tears to her eyes at the same time. She can let go now, it's all going to be all right, he's back, he's back. His fingertips brush the tears away as they slide down her cheeks. She lets out a strangled sob, and he's there, holding her, comforting her.

It feels strangely good. She's crying, but it's cathartic. She's in pain, but she's happy. He's there for her. It means a lot to her.

When the tears stop, he releases her, and she curls up in her bed and closes her eyes. She's asleep within minutes, her eyes red but her expression peaceful. He stands over her, watching her. He'll be there until the sun rises.