Adeline had always liked mornings best.
They were uncomplicated. No expectations. No questions. Just the gentle hum of the city waking up beneath her window and the smell of coffee filling her small apartment, familiar and steady in a way her thoughts rarely were.
She stood by the kitchen counter, staring at her phone while the kettle boiled. Her thumb hovered over Christopher's name, the screen still glowing with the message he'd sent late the night before.
Can I come over in the morning?
She'd said yes without thinking.
She always said yes.
The kettle clicked off. She poured the water slowly, watching the steam rise, letting the warmth settle her hands and, she hoped, her thoughts. Today was supposed to be normal. Just another day. Another quiet moment stitched into a life that felt… safe.
Yet there was a strange tightness in her chest she couldn't explain.
She ignored it.
Christopher arrived just after nine, exactly the way he always did—too loud, too cheerful, carrying an unnecessary bag of pastries like he was trying to win a prize.
"You look tired," he said, kissing her cheek.
"I'm not," she lied easily.
They sat together at the small dining table, knees brushing now and then. He talked about work, about traffic, about something his father had said the night before—some joke, some advice she half listened to. His voice filled the room, familiar and warm, but her attention drifted in and out.
She smiled when she was supposed to. Nodded. Reached for her coffee.
She didn't miss the way his father's name lingered in her mind longer than it should have.
She told herself it was nothing.
Of course it was nothing.
Later, as Christopher scrolled through his phone, Adeline drifted toward the window. The street below was busy—cars, people, life unfolding without hesitation. She wondered, briefly, when her thoughts had started to feel heavier than her days.
"You're quiet," Christopher said.
"Just thinking," she replied.
He grinned. "Dangerous."
She laughed, a little too quickly.
If she stayed still long enough, she could almost forget the strange sense of awareness that sometimes crept in when she was around his family. Almost forget the way certain moments felt sharper. Louder. Too present.
She didn't let herself ask why.
She told herself it was habit. Familiarity. The way thoughts wandered when there was nothing urgent demanding her attention. Everyone's mind drifted. Everyone noticed things they didn't mean to.
Still, she stayed by the window longer than necessary, tracing the movement of people below. A woman crossed the street with a child tugging at her hand. Someone laughed too loudly near a parked car. Ordinary moments, stitched together without meaning. She watched them like she was looking for something she couldn't quite name.
Behind her, Christopher shifted in his chair. The quiet between them stretched, not uncomfortable, just… present. It pressed gently against her ribs, the same way the morning had, the same way the night before had.
She picked up her mug again, though the coffee had gone lukewarm. The taste barely registered.
It wasn't that she was unhappy. That was the thing. Her life worked. It made sense. Christopher was kind, predictable in the ways that mattered. There was safety in that—real safety, the kind you could build days around.
So why did her chest tighten when his phone buzzed?
She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. This was nothing. A moment. A stray thought she didn't need to entertain.
She turned back toward him, ready with a smile, already rehearsing the version of herself she needed to be—easy, attentive, uncomplicated.
The feeling receded, just enough.
Not gone. Just quieter.
And for now, that was enough.
Christopher's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and frowned.
"Dad's calling. Probably wants me to swing by later."
Her fingers tightened around her mug.
"Oh," she said, careful to keep her voice light. "That's nice."
Nice.
Neutral.
Safe.
Christopher answered the call, turning slightly away, and Adeline focused on the sound of his voice instead of the sudden stillness in her body. She reminded herself—firmly—that there was nothing wrong with feeling aware. With noticing things. With being human.
Some thoughts didn't mean anything unless you gave them names.
And she wasn't ready to do that.
That night, alone again, Adeline lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Her day had been ordinary. Her life, steady. Her heart… restless, for reasons she refused to examine. She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer, as if that might quiet the unease settling beneath her ribs.
Tomorrow would be easier, she told herself.
It always was.
Still, sleep took its time finding her. Her mind drifted in slow circles, skimming the edges of thoughts she refused to hold. When she finally closed her eyes, it wasn't with peace—but with the fragile hope that morning would bury what the night had gently uncovered.