Morning came too early again.
I lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the weight in my chest to shift. It didn't. It had settled there like something permanent. I forced myself out of bed and into my routine, hoping the familiarity would steady me.
Make the bed.
Brush teeth.
Shower.
Coffee.
Silence.
Everything looked the same as yesterday, but nothing felt the same. I rehearsed the day in my mind as if repeating it could make it predictable again. A useless hope, but hope all the same.
By the time I reached the office, the air inside was uncomfortably bright. I walked to my desk and sat down, rearranging things that didn't need rearranging. A deep breath. Then another. If I could just fall back into the rhythm, maybe the cracking feeling behind my ribs would fade.
Ryan appeared a few minutes later, a folder tucked under his arm.
"You're early today," he said, voice even. Observant. "Feeling better?"
I nodded quickly. "Just trying to get ahead of things."
He hesitated for a second, studying me with that quiet, careful attention he didn't seem to realize he had.
"Alright," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."
He walked off, and I pushed out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The routine was already slipping.
I decided to get coffee. Something warm. Something to anchor me.
In the break room, two people stood near the counter, speaking in low voices that sharpened when they noticed me enter. Their conversation snapped shut, then reopened in a different direction — but I'd heard enough to catch one name.
Jimmy.
One of them turned toward me. "Hey, John. You work with Jimmy on some projects, right?"
Not a greeting. A probe.
"Yeah," I said. "But we don't really talk."
The other guy nodded, glancing toward the door as if wary of being overheard. "He's been acting strange lately. Leaving early, coming in late… jumpy. You didn't notice anything?"
My pulse picked up.
This wasn't routine.
This was the beginning of something I didn't want to touch.
"I haven't seen much of him," I said. My voice sounded too tight.
I could feel another question forming on their faces.
I needed to leave. Fast.
"Well," I added, forcing a thin smile, "I should get back. Busy morning."
They exchanged a look — curious, maybe suspicious — but let me go.
I walked out holding my coffee like it was made of glass.
Back at my desk, as I sat down, Elena passed behind me. No greeting, no pause. Just a glance at my early arrival and the way I was holding myself too still.
"Didn't think coming in early was your style," she said, voice flat.
That was all. A single observation.
But the words landed heavier than they should have.
My grip tightened.
Something flickered inside me — heat, anxiety, shame, I couldn't name it — and when I set the mug down, I misjudged the angle.
It slipped.
The crash echoed through the room as ceramic shattered across the floor.
Every head turned.
Every pair of eyes landed on me.
My chest locked.
Heat rushed to my face.
I dropped to the ground immediately, gathering pieces with shaking hands. A shard sliced across my thumb, but I barely felt it.
"Sorry," I muttered. "Sorry—"
Ryan took a step forward to help, but I was already throwing the pieces into the trash, heart hammering hard enough to blur my vision.
When I sat again, I put my head down on the desk, covering it with my hands.
Everything will be okay.
I whispered it under my breath.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
My breathing felt wrong — too fast, too shallow.
And then the room dissolved around me.
A kitchen table.
Morning light, soft and yellow against the walls.
My father sat at the table reading a newspaper, calm, composed, exactly as he had been every morning of my childhood — except last night he'd screamed so loudly it made the windows tremble.
But here he was.
Turning pages.
Pretending.
My mother moved quietly around the kitchen, not meeting his eyes, not meeting mine. Her hands were steady, too steady, performing the routine of making breakfast like a script she'd memorized long ago.
I sat at the table eating cereal, watching both of them, waiting for someone to acknowledge what had happened.
No one did.
The silence pressed against my skin.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Permanent.
Routine continued as if nothing had happened.
As if silence could erase the cracks in the walls.
I learned something that morning, sitting there at eight years old:
If you pretend hard enough, maybe the world won't break.
The office returned in a blink — fluorescent lights, the hum of electronics, the faint murmur of voices.
My hands were still shaking.
Ryan watched me from a few desks away, worry held carefully behind his neutral expression. Elena had already turned away, pretending she had seen nothing, though her eyes earlier had caught more than I wanted.
I wiped my face once with my sleeve, straightened the scattered papers on my desk, and forced myself back into posture.
Routine.
Pretend.
Don't break.
For a moment, it almost worked.
Almost.