AlieThe morning light is too clean, too sharp, like the sun is trying to scrub the night out of me.I lie there longer than I should, watching it creep across the wall. Everything looks ordinary—the same old curtains, the same quiet apartment—but my body doesn’t believe it. My chest still feels tight, my pulse quick for no reason I can name.Coffee first. Always coffee. If I move through the steps—filter, water, switch—I can make the morning mechanical, safe.The mug warms my hands, but it doesn’t chase away the echo of that café: his voice, calm and steady, and the way my skin still hums where he touched me.The place smells faintly of rain even though the windows are closed. That’s what gets me first. Not the missing time from last night, not the half-formed dreams, but the smell. It shouldn’t be here.I try to shake it off. There’s work to do. I open my laptop and bury myself in spreadsheets, emails, numbers that never stop adding up.But little things keep tugging at me—the chair
Dernière mise à jour : 2025-10-30
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