The Mug with the Chip

I put the kettle on because it’s the only part of the morning that still listens to me.

The kitchen is quiet except for the tick of the clock and the dull hum of the fridge. Outside, the sky is the color of a bruise that hasn’t decided what it’s going to be yet. I lean against the counter and watch the kettle, willing it to hurry, as if heat works faster when you stare it down.

Yesterday’s mug sits in the sink, a brown ring dried to the inside like evidence. I rinse it out, run my thumb along the chip in the rim. I remember when it happened. Or at least I remember telling the story of when it happened so many times that the story replaced the memory.

The kettle clicks off. I spoon coffee into the mug, a little more than I should. The smell rises up and fills the room, warm and bitter and grounding. I pour the water slowly, watching the dark bloom and swirl. For a moment, that’s all there is. No phone buzzing. No email. No version of myself I’m supposed to be in an hour.

I add milk. Stir once. Then again.

I take the mug to the window and blow on the surface even though it’s still too hot to drink. The steam fogs the glass, and my reflection disappears. That feels right. Just for a minute.

When the steam clears, the street comes back into focus. A man jogs past with a dog that looks like it’s dragging him out of obligation. Somewhere down the block, a car door slams. Life, getting on with it.

I take a careful sip and burn my tongue anyway. The pain is small but sharp, useful. It keeps me here. I set the mug down on the windowsill and flex my jaw until the sting fades.

The phone buzzes on the table behind me. I don’t turn around. I already know who it’s from. Or at least who it isn’t. There’s a difference.

I think about the version of today I imagined a year ago. It had cleaner lines. Better posture. Fewer mornings that needed convincing. Back then, I thought change would arrive all at once, like a door kicked in. Instead, it’s been this. Small choices. Staying. Standing at a window with coffee cooling too fast.

The phone buzzes again. I pick up the mug, take another sip, slower this time. It tastes better now that it’s settled.

“All right,” I say, to no one, and finally turn around.

The phone has stopped buzzing by the time I reach the table. It lies face down like it’s learned some manners. I leave it that way and sit, wrapping both hands around the mug. The heat has softened into something manageable. Friendly, even.

I think about answering messages the way people talk about returning library books. With good intentions. With a vague sense of guilt. Eventually, maybe.

The chair across from me is empty, but my eyes keep landing there. That’s where she used to sit, legs tucked under her, claiming it was warmer that way. She didn’t even drink coffee. Just tea, always tea, steeped too long. She liked it bitter. Said it reminded her to pay attention.

I take another sip and glance at the phone at last. One new message. Just one. From my sister. A simple checking in, padded with a smiley face that tries not to look worried.

I type back, Fine. Morning’s quiet. Coffee’s strong. I delete it. Too much information for a lie.

Instead I write, I’m up. Talk later.

I stand and rinse the mug, even though there’s still some left. The sink gurgles, then settles. I dry the cup and put it back in the cabinet, chip turned toward the wall. Some habits stick around even when the reason for them leaves.

Before I grab my keys, I pause by the kettle. It’s cold now. I fill it anyway and set it back on the stove, ready for later. For someone, maybe. Or just for me.

Then I turn off the kitchen light and step out into the morning, carrying the quiet with me as long as I can.

The hallway smells like old carpet and someone else’s cooking. I lock the door behind me and tug my jacket tighter, even though it isn’t that cold. The building sighs as I take the stairs, a sound like it’s relieved to see me go.

Outside, the air feels unfinished. I stand on the stoop for a second, keys still in my hand, as if I might turn back. I don’t. I never do.

I walk without a plan, letting my feet decide. Past the corner shop with the flickering sign. Past the bus stop where the same three people wait every morning, never speaking, all of us pretending this isn’t a ritual. Someone has chalked a hopscotch grid on the sidewalk, crooked and hopeful. I step around it.

At the end of the block, I slow. This is where she used to peel off, waving without looking back. I pause anyway, stupid muscle memory tugging me sideways. I almost laugh.

The phone vibrates again. I answer this time.

“Hey,” my sister says. Her voice sounds relieved in a way she probably doesn’t realize.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

I think about the kettle cooling on the stove. About the mug with the chip. About how I showed up to the morning, even if I didn’t do much else.

“I am,” I say. And it’s close enough to true.

She talks about nothing for a bit. Work. Weather. A neighbor’s dog that keeps escaping. I listen and walk, matching my steps to her sentences. By the time we hang up, I’ve gone farther than I meant to.

I stop at a café window and look in. Steam, clatter, people leaning into their lives. For a moment, I imagine going in. Ordering something. Sitting down.

Not today.

I turn back toward home, surprised to find I don’t dread it. There’s water waiting in the kettle. Time, too. That feels like enough to carry for now.