Chapter 2: Weight Of Routine
994 Words
The morning didn't come with sunlight.
It slipped through the curtains like it was afraid to be seen, weak and colorless, barely touching the walls.
Faith sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Her eyes ached from crying, but there were no tears left. Just that familiar emptiness — the kind that made breathing feel like a chore.
The city outside was already awake. She could hear it — the sound of tires splashing through puddles, vendors shouting over one another, a woman laughing too loudly at something Faith couldn't see. Life went on. It always did, even when she couldn't keep up.
She pushed herself to stand and walked toward the small mirror hanging above her sink. The reflection staring back wasn't cruel, just honest. Tired eyes, chapped lips, hair that had forgotten what care felt like. She studied herself for a long time, searching for the girl she used to be.
The one who believed she'd make something out of her life.
The one who thought love could fix broken people.
But that girl was long gone. What was left was quieter — someone who learned to hide her bruises behind small smiles and quiet acceptance.
Faith turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face. It didn't help much, but it was something. Sometimes "something" was enough.
Her phone sat on the table, where she'd left it. She glanced at it again, half hoping the name would appear once more, half praying it wouldn't. The screen stayed black.
She picked it up anyway, tracing her thumb along the edges. Maybe today she'd text back. Not to forgive, not to reconnect — just to say I'm still here.
But she didn't. Instead, she set it down, grabbed her coat, and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool and clean, brushing against her skin like a small reminder that she was still alive. She walked aimlessly again, the way she always did — no direction, no plan. Just movement.
Sometimes she watched people pass and wondered how they did it — how they laughed so easily, how they looked so unbothered by the weight of everything. Maybe they were just better at pretending. Maybe she was too obvious in her sadness.
She stopped at a small bakery on the corner — the kind that always smelled like comfort. The woman behind the counter smiled at her. "Rough morning?" she asked kindly.
Faith hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Something like that."
The woman slid a small paper ball of cookies toward her. "On the house."
Faith blinked, surprised. For a second, warmth bloomed in her chest — the kind that didn't come from the cookies. Just simple kindness. Something she hadn't felt in a long time.
She whispered a quiet thank you and stepped back into the street. The cookies fingers closed around the paper, she inhaled the warm, vanilla-scented steam that instantly hit her face, the smell wrapping around her like a fragile hug.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Faith let herself believe that even broken people could still start again — slowly, quietly, one morning at a time.
The café was already crowded when Faith walked in, the morning rush humming like static. The smell of roasted coffee beans clung to the air, mixing with the sound of chatter, clinking mugs, and the hiss of steaming milk.
Her apron hung loosely around her waist, faded and frayed from too many washes. She tied it in silence, tucked a few curls behind her ear, and slipped behind the counter. No one greeted her — not out of rudeness, but because this was just life now. Everyone here was tired in their own way.
"Morning, Faith," called Mrs Rose her manager called without looking up from the register.
"Morning," she replied softly, forcing a small smile.
She'd been working here for almost eight months. Long enough for her hands to memorize every motion — the turn of the cup, the push of the espresso machine, the quiet rhythm that kept her from thinking too much.
Work wasn't passion. It was distraction.
She moved carefully, handing out cups to faces that blurred together. Every smile she gave felt practiced, but it helped her blend in.
That was what she wanted — to exist quietly, unseen.
But sometimes, when she saw girls her age come in laughing, clutching their phones, talking about plans and birthdays, something inside her tightened. They looked so free. So untouched by the world.
She tried not to envy them. Tried not to think about what she lost — or what she traded to survive.
"Faith, can you cover table six?" Mrs Rose asked. "The new guy David, is on break."
She nodded and carried the tray across the floor, careful not to spill the drinks.
At table six sat a David, she hadn't noticed before — maybe early thirties, reading a book with a half-smile. He looked up when she placed his coffee down.
"Thanks," he said gently. His voice wasn't loud or deep — just kind. The kind that made her chest ache a little.
She nodded, avoiding his eyes. "You're welcome."
He studied her for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. Faith turned away before he could. She didn't want kindness today. It reminded her of everything she'd forgotten how to accept.
Hours passed in a blur of orders, receipts, and tired smiles. By the time her shift ended, the muscles in her back ached and her feet throbbed. But at least work gave her something the world rarely did — purpose, even if it was small.
She stepped outside into the fading afternoon light. The air smelled of rain again.
Faith untied her apron, folded it neatly, and whispered to herself,
"Another day down."
It wasn't victory, but it was survival.
And for now, that was enough.
- Writer
