i made my tea in the dark this morning. put the kettle on with practiced ease, the faint blue light illuminating the counters. i walked to the cabinet and grabbed one tea bag and my jar of honey on instinct.
the shadows of the kitchen leaned in dark, but i wasn’t scared. for the first time, i let the silence stretch. it was too early for birds to listen to or people to talk to, so i listened to the darkness.
the clock ticked softly on the wall, steady as breath. water poured into the mug, honey measured slow and golden, the tea steeping for exactly six minutes.
my hands moved on instinct. this is not a task i have to think about. the body remembers small rituals even when the mind wanders too far.
the darkness wrapped around the kitchenand i let it. let its cool fingers settle along my spine, let it breathe in the quiet with me.
i took a deep breath.
i used to be afraid of the dark. used to believe monsters hid somewhere inside it. now when i look into the corners of a room, i know better. the monsters were never there.
the mug in my hands is warm, steam rising in thin spirals. morning. honey. hope. small things. fragile things.
i hold the cup close while the darkness presses in, soft and patient, and for a moment i cannot tell whether the warmth is keeping it away
or if the darkness is simply waiting.
