I go back to work because staying home feels like drowning slowly.
Not the dramatic kind, with thrashing and screaming. Just this quiet seep. Water sliding in, filling the spaces between breaths, while the world outside keeps moving like nothing’s wrong. I hate how ordinary the pain is. How it doesn’t even have the courtesy to knock me flat. It just sits there, heavy, making every small thing feel like effort.
The café smells exactly the same. Burnt milk from the steamer. That sweet doughy hit of fresh croissants. Sharp lemon from the floors Mara mopped last night. It’s comforting in a way that annoys me. Like an ex who still knows your coffee order. Familiar enough to hurt.
I tie the apron tighter than necessary. Knot it hard against my stomach like that’ll hold everything in place. My
