Every morning I set out two coffee cups. Black for me, cream and sugar for the left side of the counter. I only drink from the right.
It's been nine months since Daniel moved out. Not died, moved. Grief with a forwarding address doesn't earn the same weight.
His name tent card from a work conference is still on the kitchen table. Daniel Ruiz, Operations. I move it when I wipe down, then I put it back.
Today I broke down the moving boxes. They'd been stacked by the back door since the weekend he left. I flattened each one and carried them to the curb.
I came back inside and stood in the kitchen. The counter felt enormous.
Tomorrow I'll set out two cups again. But tonight I noticed that I do it, and that felt like the first honest thing in months.