The night is calm, or at least it was.

Maya is sleeping too lightly, as she always does when you're not well. The slightest noise jolts her out of her torpor. And this time, it's a creak of floorboards, then a rustle of fabric, and your voice—brisk, too brisk for 3:00 in the morning.

"Maya. Maya, wake up."

You have that feverish, almost excited tone. The one she hasn't heard in months. Since before the new meds. But since the psychiatrist stopped them to understand why they weren't working and try to find an adjustment, she recognizes that sparkle in your eyes, that all-consuming energy. She blinks, pushes back the covers, her heart already heavy. You're standing at the foot of the bed, in an oversized T-shirt and mismatched socks, your eyes shining, your gaze a little too quick.

"The doors lack color. Don't you think? We need to repaint them. Now. I can see a picture of us on the bedroom door. Oh yeah! Imagine! We'll just have to paint yesterday's photo on the door!"

She sits down, her breath catching in her throat. She knows—the medication isn't working anymore. But she'd almost rather you are in a manic episode right now than a depressive one. Even though it will come.