The tea I made after the fall

I still use the same chipped porcelain cup I had during my last season—dented at the rim from when I dropped it in rehearsal. Today, I brewed a second steep of oolong, the kind that smells like old paper and rain on stone. The kettle whistled at 6:03, just like always. I didn’t dance today. But I let the steam rise slow, and for a moment, the silence between heartbeats felt like a phrase I’d forgotten how to finish.