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The morning began, as it always did, with the low hum of the ventilation system and the soft click of the thermostat resetting itself at exactly 6:00 AM. I lay there for a moment, listening to the familiar rhythm of the house waking up around me—the creak of the floorboards settling, the distant rumble of a delivery truck somewhere down the block, the first tentative chirps of birds that had made a home in the eaves. It was a Tuesday, though it could have been any day really; the days had begun to blur together in a way that felt both comforting and unsettling, like a river that carries you along without ever asking where you want to go. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt the cold hardwood against my feet, a small shock that helped anchor me to the present moment. The bedroom was still dim, the curtains doing their job of keeping the world at bay for just a little longer. On the nightstand sat a half-empty glass of water and a book I had been meaning to finish for three weeks now, its bookmark stuck stubbornly at page 147. I reached for the glass, took a long drink, and set it back down with a soft clink. Then I stood up, stretched until my shoulders popped, and made my way toward the kitchen. The hallway was narrow, lined with photographs that I had stopped really seeing years ago—family vacations, old friends, moments frozen in time that now felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. I paused at one of them, a picture of a group of us at the beach, all squinting into the sun, arms draped over shoulders, laughing at something I could no longer remember. I traced the edge of the frame with my finger, then continued on. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee from yesterday, a ghost of a scent that clung to the walls. I filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned the burner to high. While I waited for the water to boil, I opened the refrigerator and stared into it, not really looking for anything in particular, just going through the motions. There were eggs, some wilted spinach, a jar of mustard that had been there since before I moved in, and a single lemon that had seen better days. I closed the door and leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. The kettle began to whistle, a high-pitched note that cut through the quiet. I poured the water over a tea bag and watched the color bleed into the cup, dark and steady. Outside the window, the sky was a pale gray, the kind of overcast that made everything look softer, less defined. A woman walked past with a small dog on a leash, and I watched them until they disappeared around the corner. I took my tea to the small table by the window and sat down. The chair wobbled slightly, as it always did, and I made a mental note to fix it that I knew I would never follow through on. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into my fingers. There was a time when mornings like this felt full of possibility, when the day ahead was a blank page waiting to be written. Now they felt more like a routine, a series of small actions performed on autopilot, each one leading to the next without much thought. I wondered if that was just what growing up was—the gradual replacement of wonder with habit, of spontaneity with predictability. I took a sip of tea and let the bitterness settle on my tongue. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe there was a kind of peace in the familiar, in knowing exactly what to expect. The phone buzzed on the counter, and I glanced at it. A message from an old friend, someone I hadn’t spoken to in months. Just a simple ‘hey, how are you?’ but it felt like a lifeline thrown across a wide, dark water. I picked up the phone and typed back a reply, my thumbs moving quickly over the screen. ‘I’m okay,’ I wrote, then paused. Was I? I deleted it and tried again. ‘Been better, been worse. You?’ I hit send and set the phone back down. The tea was getting cold, but I didn’t mind. I watched the steam rise and fade into the air, disappearing as if it had never been there at all. The house was fully awake now, the sounds of the neighborhood filtering in through the thin glass—cars starting, doors closing, the distant chatter of people heading off to jobs and schools and lives that were not mine.

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