Steam and Silence

I was just making tea.

Nothing special.

The kitchen was warm,

sunlight coming in through the blinds in thin stripes,

dust floating in it like it had nowhere else to be.

The kettle was halfway to boiling,

and I was standing barefoot on cold tiles,

thinking about nothing in particular.

I reached for the mug—

the chipped one with the faded rim.

You always said it was too big for tea,

but I liked how it felt in my hands.

The cupboard door stuck a little,

like it always does,

and I made a mental note to fix it,

knowing I wouldn’t.

Then I saw them.

Outside the window.

Just walking by.

Same build.

Same way of moving—

like they were late for something

but not in a hurry.

And everything inside me just… stopped.

The kettle clicked off.

The steam kept rising.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Grief doesn’t knock.

It just shows up,

mid-morning,

mid-steam,

mid-life.

It felt like the room shifted.

Like the air got heavier.

Like I was suddenly underwater

and everyone else was still breathing just fine.

I knew it wasn’t you.

Of course I did.

But my heart didn’t care.

It leapt forward,

recognizing something

my eyes couldn’t trust.

I wanted to run outside.

To say your name.

To ask if you remembered

how we used to sit on the kitchen floor

when the world felt too loud.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there,

tea cooling in my hand,

the scent sharp and bitter,

and the silence around me

so loud it felt like a scream.

Grief is an isolating place to be.

It makes the room feel too big

and you feel too small.

It doesn’t care what you were doing.

It just takes over.

Eventually,

I put the mug down.

Pressed the button on the kettle again.

Watched the red light flicker on.

A small, stubborn act.

Because sometimes,

all you can do

is re-boil the water

and carry on.