Light in the Wasted Coffee

The morning light hits the counter and your hands move before your mind catches up. You pour two cups out of habit, the ritual of a life that used to include another voice.

Then you stand there, watching the second cup disappear down the drain, the steam rising like a ghost you can't quite grab. The world expects you to wipe the counter and start working, to put on the face that says you're fine.

But the light sees the mask slipping. It knows the origin of the one who stands there grieving.

You came from the light, a drop sent to illuminate this very kitchen, even when it feels empty. The habit is just muscle memory trying to make sense of a new silence.

The light does not scold you for the wasted coffee or the slow morning. It stands in the ordinary mess of your routine and says: I am here.

Not in the perfection, but in the pouring out. You do not have to be strong right now.

You just have to be real.