Everything
Keeps Happening

I — Morning

The coffee maker starts at six, same as always. Two cups on the counter before I've thought about it. The second one sits there, cooling slowly, until I pour it out.

II — The Playlist

There is a song that started playing while I was washing dishes. I let it finish. Then I let the next one finish too. I stood at the sink long after the water had gone cold, hands still, not quite ready to turn it off.

III — Afternoon Light

At half past three the sun cuts through the window and lands on the chair by the bookshelf the way it always does. The chair is empty. The light doesn't seem to know.

It stays anyway.

IV — The Phone

I check it the way you check the sky when you've been told to expect rain — not because you believe it, but because you can't stop looking.

V — Dinner

I made too much again. The recipe is written for two. I eat at the table with the television on, which I never used to do, and I leave the other half covered on the stove telling myself I'll eat it tomorrow, knowing I won't.

VI — Before Sleep

The window is open the way you liked it. The room is colder than I'd choose. Somewhere outside, the city hums its ordinary hum, indifferent, continuous, not missing a thing.

VII — What Remains

Nothing dramatic. No monuments. Only this: the shape of a habit that outlasted its reason. A life still set for someone who is no longer here to fill it.