The coffee I didn’t drink at 3 a.m.

I made it—dark roast, just enough milk to blur the edges—then sat with it for twenty minutes while the city outside my window went quiet. Didn’t touch it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew if I did, I’d have to admit I was awake and alone in a way that can’t be fixed with caffeine. The cup cooled like a memory. Sometimes the act of waiting is the only thing that holds you together.