Another Morning, Same Taste

I was standing in the kitchen in the morning, as always, in front of the coffee machine.

It felt like a ritual. A habit so old it barely registered anymore. Coffee had been part of my life for as long as I could remember being an adult. Good days, bad days, days I didn’t want to think about at all—coffee was there. I loved it. Or at least, I used to.

When it was new, it was exciting. I think it started in high school, when the pressure of exams and the fear of the future made sleep feel optional. Coffee was my weapon. The smell alone felt powerful. Dark, deep, promising. The first sip burned my tongue just enough to wake me up, and suddenly I felt unstoppable. Like I could take over the world if I wanted to.

The grinder stopped.

The silence felt louder than the noise had been. I stared at the machine and realized something strange: I didn’t remember which beans I had chosen today. Not even vaguely. Light roast, dark roast, something fancy with a long description on the package—it didn’t matter anymore.

It had become automatic.

I looked at the ground coffee sitting in the filter. Flat. Still. Almost sad.

Was it always like this?

No. It wasn’t.

In college, coffee meant adventure. New cafés. New streets. New people. I loved walking into random places just because the smell pulled me in. Coffee had character back then. So did I.

That was almost twenty years ago. Before adult life happened.

A small voice inside me interrupted: maybe it wasn’t the coffee you miss. Maybe it was who you were. And who you were with.

That made sense. I slowly poured the coffee into the filter machine. Before pressing the start button, everything stopped.

My life unfolded in front of me like a short, sad story I hadn’t planned to read.

I remembered how energetic I used to feel. How curious. How open. Coffee was only one part of it. I believed I would live an ideal life—doing a job I loved, in a place I loved, earning enough to feel safe without feeling trapped. Traveling whenever I wanted. Sharing life with people who felt like home.

I remembered walking across Europe with barely any money in my pocket, admiring cities, buildings, small details most tourists ignored. I told myself, One day I’ll come back here as an adult and enjoy it properly.

I did come back.

And I was disappointed.

As an adult, I couldn’t even breathe in the beauty. My mind was full of work emails, deadlines, apartment problems, plans I hadn’t made yet but was already stressed about.

Italy hurt the most.

I loved it there once. So much that I learned the language while being an exchange student. I thought going back would feel like coming home.

Instead, it felt empty.

That trip ended with a terrible fight about marriage and the future. I don’t remember enjoying a single meal. Nothing tasted right. Everything felt insufficient. Like something had permanently shifted, and there was no way back.

I looked down again. The coffee grounds were still waiting.

I leaned closer and tried to smell them. Was it wild cherry? Chocolate? I wasn’t sure. But suddenly, it reminded me of his old perfume.

I turned my head.

He was sitting at his computer, typing. Focused. Calm. Either unaware that I was there—or pretending not to notice.

He looked comfortable. Settled. A stable job. A safe country. A clear plan. Maybe that was enough for him.

I studied his face and realized how much he had changed.

Once, he was curious. Funny. Open. We talked about everything—politics, sports, ideas. I loved that about him. Being raised more like a tomboy, I felt understood. Seen.

Now our conversations were dry. Errands. Groceries. Bills.

Over time, he had grown rigid. Bitter in small ways. He blamed me for not being “domestic enough.”

Why don’t you cook more?

Why do you always order takeaway?

I thought you loved me for being different, I had said once. For being independent. For not caring too much about traditional roles.

He shrugged. I did. But I expected a bit more.

More.

Why can’t you plan things in advance? he always asked.

I told him I was fine with planning. I just liked being spontaneous sometimes. I liked breathing.

He sighed. That long, disappointed sigh.

I expected you to be more free-spirited, I said once. Not like a sixty-year-old dad stuck in a thirty-year-old body.

Silence.

Expectations collapsing quietly between us.

Do I still love him?

I think I do. But my heart feels cracked in too many places to be sure.

Why do we expect so much from life? From people? Why don’t we wake up each day like a blank page, instead of carrying yesterday’s disappointments with us?

I turned my head again. He still hadn’t looked up.

Maybe he knew I was there. Maybe the silence was punishment. We had fought badly this week.

Once, he wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes without apologizing. He would hug me so tightly I felt like I might disappear into him.

I can’t remember the last time that hug happened.

Coffee. Memory. Loss.

I looked at the coffee grounds again. I wanted to smell them one more time—but I was afraid. Afraid of where my thoughts would go.

Maybe it was better to start the day. To live on autopilot. Work. Tasks. Distractions.

When you spend the whole day chasing small things just to survive, there’s no space left for nostalgia. No space for grief.

But is that really a life worth living?

My hand hovered over the start button.

If I pressed it, I would pour the coffee, bring it to my desk, and my usual day would begin. Emails. Meetings. Noise.

Part of me wanted to stay here, stuck in memory, tasting the past and questioning everything.

My hand trembled.

No, I thought. I can’t take this anymore.

Time to stop thinking. Time to return to the real world.

I pressed the button.

The machine roared to life, loud and sudden, like my thoughts trying to take control one last time.

And then, after days of silence, I heard him speak.

“Wow,” he said, without looking up. “This coffee machine is really loud.”

I stood there, listening to the noise, feeling something settle inside me.

Yes, I thought. It is.

And just like that, the day began.