A Backup, Very Wise.

“Well, well, well,” said the kettle, as it was filled with water in three sharp, emotionally charged glugs. “Romantic catastrophe. Medium to severe.”

The mug, which had been positioned optimistically near the front of the cupboard all day, stiffened. “Are we sure?”

“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve had a handle,” said the kettle. “That was an angry-lid attempt. Two hands, no patience. They only do that when someone’s let them down and they’re pretending they’re not bothered.”

The teaspoon lay very still.

The lid had, in fact, taken three attempts to open that morning.

“You only get sigh-pours like that in three situations,” the kettle went on. “Heartbreak, unexpected bills, and when someone says ‘We need to talk.’”

“First break-up?” the mug asked.

“Please,” said the kettle. “I’ve handled three housemates, two long-term relationships, one situationship, and a period where they briefly thought they were focusing on themselves.”

“How did that go?”

“A lot more tea,” said the kettle. “A lot less clarity.”

It lowered its voice.

“I bet it’s the other one. The one with the stupid novelty slippers. I never trusted him.”

“The pigeon ones?” the mug asked quietly.

“Exactly,” said the kettle. “Can’t even make a sound slipper-based decision.”

“And they never cleaned the mug properly,” said the sink.

“Left rings,” agreed the mug darkly. “Nobody wants to use a mug with… stains.”

“Didn’t preheat me,” said the oven from the other side of the room, still resentful. “Then tried to blame me for the undercooked chicken.”

“I told you,” said the kettle. “Major character flaws.”

The cupboard door shut with unnecessary force.

“Brace,” muttered the sink. “We’re heading into Feelings.”

The switch was flicked. The kettle began to hum with the weary professionalism of someone who had clocked in for another emotional shift.

The human stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at absolutely nothing.

This, in appliance terms, was known as The Buffering.

The fridge turned on its internal light in quiet acknowledgement. “Severity?”

“Advanced,” said the kettle. “But new. No crying. More contemplation. That’s a change.”

The mug was selected.

“Oh,” it whispered, trying not to sound thrilled. “Me. Good. I can do this. I’m sturdy.”

The teabag was dropped in. No ceremony.

“That’s the strong one,” the mug said faintly. “Oh dear.”

The water was poured. Steam rose.

“Steep it,” said the kettle gently. “Let it grow some backbone.”

No sugar.

The teaspoon froze.

“No sugar?” it said quietly. “That’s not standard heartbreak protocol.”

The sink stopped dripping.

Even the fridge hummed lower.

“Interesting, we may already be entering the ‘I’m fine actually’ phase. Very unstable,” said the kettle. “All right. Nobody panic. We adjust.”

Rain trickled down the window as the human sat, both hands wrapped around the mug.

No tears.

No dramatic sighs.

Just… sitting.

“This is worse,” said the mug. “Sobbing, I can handle.”

“This is the thinking stage,” said the kettle. “Thinking leads to staring. Staring leads to life decisions.”

“What kind?” the teaspoon asked.

“The big, irreversible sort,” said the sink.

“Classic case,” the kettle continued. “The other one’s definitely done something avoidable.”

“Like what?” the mug asked.

“Forgot an anniversary,” said the kettle immediately.

“They weren’t together that long,” the mug said.

“Overconfidence,” said the kettle darkly. “That’s how it starts.”

The human stared into the tea.

“Could be the other one said something unnecessary,” the kettle went on. “Humans love an unnecessary comment. Something about being honest or that ever-obnoxious just saying.”

“That does sound likely,” said the sink.

“Or,” the kettle added, lowering its voice, “the other one’s taken up a hobby.”

The mug gasped. “Not a phase hobby?”

“Exactly. A sudden ‘new personality.’ They never survive those.”

The teaspoon trembled. “Like what?”

“Cycling,” said the kettle.

“Podcasting," said the oven.

"Hot yoga," said the fridge in disgust.

"Or even… creative writing," the kettle finished gravely.

The fridge gasped.

“What a monster,” said the teaspoon.

“The horror, that's devastating,” agreed the mug.

The human rubbed their forehead.

“Ah,” said the kettle knowingly. “That’s the replaying-the-conversation gesture. They’re editing the past. Humans do that when someone’s let them down in a deeply predictable way.”

“Do you think the other one apologised?” the mug asked.

“Too late,” said the kettle. “When you’ve seen as much as I have, you can tell from the shoulder slump. That’s post-apology disappointment.”

The fridge hummed thoughtfully. “The other one did always walk heavily.”

“Poor decision-making in the heel strike,” agreed the kettle.

The tea cooled.

The human looked around the kitchen.

Not absent-mindedly.

Just… taking it in.

At the counter.

The window.

The cupboard.

The kettle.

“Inventory?” suggested the teaspoon weakly.

“Reflection,” said the kettle. “Very therapeutic.”

The doorbell rang.

“Ah,” said the kettle. “Parcel. Classic distraction technique. Humans love parcels when emotionally compromised.”

A box was brought into the kitchen.

“See?” said the kettle.

“Biscuits?” whispered the mug.

“Comfort purchase,” said the kettle confidently. “Textbook.”

“Chocolate?" said the teaspoon hopefully.

“It has to be a replacement filter,” said the kettle. “I do work very hard.”

The fridge didn’t comment.

The box was opened.

Packaging removed.

Something gleamed.

The kettle went very still.

The human lifted out…

another kettle.

Shiny. Polite. Efficient-looking. The sort that had probably been described online as reliable.

“Oh,” said the kettle brightly. “Sensible. Can’t be too careful. Backup kettle. Very wise.”

No one replied.

The teaspoon lay flat.

The sink did not drip.

The mug looked away.

The fridge hummed, low and long.

The human placed the new kettle on the counter.

Then, gently, without ceremony, slid the old one slightly to the side.

Not unkindly.

Just… aside.

“Rotation,” said the kettle. “Good for longevity.”

The cupboard door stayed closed.

The mug didn’t move.

The rain tapped at the window.

Then the human picked up the old kettle.

And put it into the box.

“Oh,” said the old kettle. “Ah. Right then. Deep clean, I expect.”

No one spoke.

For a moment, just a moment, the kettle wondered if it had misread the situation. The water had taken longer to boil lately. The switch had needed a firmer press or two. The lid didn’t seal quite right.

But no, of course not.

This was about heartbreak. Or the other one.

Obviously.

The human closed the box.

The new kettle cleared its throat, a small, bright click, like confidence fresh out of the packaging.

“Hello,” it said politely. “I boil very quickly.”

The old kettle felt itself lifted. “Ah, here we go,” it said, “let the maintenance commence.”

The human opened the door, and cool air slipped through the gap in the box.

Inside the kitchen, every appliance went very still. There was a small, distinct sound - the lid of the outdoor bin opening.