Still Half Full

The coffee is still half full

on the counter.

...

You left it there on purpose–

a small promise to yourself,

a bookmark in the morning.

Steam already gone,

ring of brown drying into the laminate

like a quiet bruise.

...

The apartment waits

the way it always does.

Shoes kicked off by the door.

A light left on because

you hate coming home to darkness.

The sink holding last night's dishes,

patient, unbothered by time.

...

You walked out believing

return was a given.

Believing walls remember you,

that keys turning in locks

are a law of nature.

Believing later is guaranteed.

...

Your partner comes back

before the sun goes down.

They call your name without fear,

because fear has never lived here before.

Their jacket lands on the chair.

They notice the coffee–

half empty, half waiting–

and smile at the habit of you.

...

They do not know

this cup is the last thing

you ever touched.

...

Hours pass.

The coffee goes ice cold.

The room holds its breath.

Silence thickens into something

that won't move out of the way.

...

They text you.

Then call.

Then stand very still

in the middle of the kitchen,

as if stillness might summon you back

through sheer hope.

...

The apartment does not tell them.

It keeps your secret with cruelty.

It lets the clock keep ticking.

It lets the coffee turn bitter.

...

By nightfall, the cup is untouched,

a relic of the version of the day

that believed in endings with doors.

...

You never make it back.

Not to this room.

Not to the light you left on.

Not to the life you assumed

would pause politely for you.

...

Your absence settles into the corners,

into the couch cushion shaped like your body,

into the quiet that sounds

nothing like peace.

...

And that cup–

still half full–

becomes proof of the lie

we tell ourselves every morning:

...

that coming home

is a certainty,

that love will always be waiting,

that we are owed

the end of what we begin.