The coffee I didn’t drink this morning

I made it at 4:15, the way I do when the silence gets too loud. Grounds from a tin I’ve had since last winter, water just off the boil. Poured it into the chipped blue mug that used to belong to my grandmother. Sat with it for ten minutes, watching the steam curl like something trying to say goodbye. Then poured it down the sink. Not because it was bad — it wasn’t. Just… too much like waiting for someone who won’t come. Sometimes the ritual is the point.