I Just…

The kettle clicked off, too loud in the quiet kitchen. It was the kind of click that felt accusatory, as if it was pointing something out. You asked for this, it said. You’re supposed to do something now.

She didn’t move for it straight away. Her phone was on the bench, screen still lit, the pale glow reflecting in the window above the sink. Outside, the sky was already fully awake, as if the day had started without waiting for her.

“Are you going to get that?” her daughter said from the table, not looking up from her cereal. The spoon scraped gently against the bowl.

“In a second.”

The phone went dark on its own. She didn’t tap it back on. Instead, she turned the kettle back on, even though it had already boiled, the water inside still probably too hot to touch.

Her daughter looked up now. “You forgot again.”

“I didn’t forget,” she said. “I’m just… doing something else first.”

“What?”

She reached for a mug, then realised she was holding Mark’s. The one with the chipped rim and the faded joke printed on the side. They used to fight over this one because it held slightly more than the others.

She paused, thumb tracing the crack without thinking. “Nothing,” she said, and put it back in the cupboard a little harder than necessary. The cupboard door rattled.

Her daughter watched this with the calm interest of someone who noticed everything but didn’t comment yet. “Are we late?” she asked.

“No.”

“We’re always late.”

“Not today.”

They weren’t, but only because she had woken up early for no reason and stayed awake, staring at the ceiling while the house breathed around her, acutely aware of the space beside her in the bed that still felt like it should be occupied.

She poured the water. It sloshed over the edge of the mug, leaving a small puddle on the bench. She wiped it with a tea towel that was already damp.

The bus was crowded. Someone’s backpack kept brushing her leg. Someone else was talking on speakerphone about a renovation that sounded expensive and stressful. Another person was listening to music entirely too loudly.

Her daughter squeezed into an aisle seat beside a young boy who kept his headphones in and head down. She stood, one hand on the rail, one on her phone. The email was still there, unopened but present, like a thought she kept circling.

Subject: Checking in.

She opened it. Read the two lines she’d left herself.

Hi Mark,

I just wanted to...

“That’s not a sentence,” her daughter said, peering over.

“Don’t read my messages.”

“You’re holding it right in front of my face.”

She locked the screen. “It’s work.”

Her daughter made a face. “You don’t have work today.”

“I do. Just not… office work.”

The bus jolted to a stop. Someone apologised too loudly. A pram wheel clipped her ankle, and the mother apologised. The driver sighed like this was personal.

Her daughter pressed the stop button three times. “This is us.”

“I know.”

They got off. The air had an edge of cold to it; it wasn't properly winter, not yet, but it wasn't warm enough to still be summer.

At the school gate, another parent waved, already mid-conversation before she was properly there. “Hey! Did you get my message about the excursion?”

She blinked. “Which excursion?”

“The zoo. Next Thursday.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean, yes. I did. Lucy is looking forward to it.”

Her daughter was already halfway inside the gate, backpack bouncing, shoelaces half untied. She turned back, sudden and serious. “Mum?”

“What?”

“You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

She shrugged, but her eyes were sharp. “The not-here thing.”

The bell rang, and there was no space left to answer. Her daughter disappeared into the noise and movement and other children who seemed to belong to a world she was no longer fully part of.

She walked instead of catching the return bus. Past the café where Mark used to order for both of them without asking. Past the bookstore where they argued about whether they needed another copy of the same novel because “this one has a better introduction.”

Her phone buzzed. She stopped without meaning to, checking the phone to see if it was the message she wanted.

Not him. A group chat. Someone’s birthday. Someone’s pregnancy. Three exclamation marks. A heart emoji.

She opened the email again. Added a line.

I don’t really know what I’m saying, I just...

A man beside her said, “Sorry, is this line for coffee or for waiting?”

She looked up. There was a line. She was standing in it, halfway committed to something she didn’t remember choosing.

“Oh. Coffee. I think.”

He smiled, relieved. “Good. Me too.”

Inside, the café smelled like milk, sugar and baked goods. The barista looked at her like she was a regular. “What can I get you?”

She almost ordered her normal choice. The words were already halfway formed. Then it stalled, caught on something she couldn’t quite name.

“Ahh... can I get...” She stopped, letting out a small laugh. “Sorry. I need a second.”

“That’s okay,” the barista said. “Take your time.”

She looked at the menu like it might contain instructions. Like, somewhere between oat milk and long black, there might be a small answer to a much larger question.

Behind her, the man shifted his weight, not away, not closer. Just there. “No pressure,” he said. “It’s a big decision.”

She glanced back at him despite herself. He was smiling.

“I always get the same thing,” she said. She didn’t know why she was telling him this.

“So this is a momentous occasion.”

She exhaled something that might have been a laugh. “Apparently.”

“What’s the usual?”

“Flat white. Two sugars.”

He nodded, like he was taking this seriously. “And today?”

She looked at the menu again. Then, at her phone, still glowing faintly in her hand. “I’ll have a flat white,” she said. “No sugar.”

The barista tapped it in. “Nice.”

She stepped aside and leaned against the counter. The man stood beside her now, close enough that she could smell soap on his jacket, something clean and ordinary.

“Bold,” he said.

“It’s not that bold.”

He shrugged. “It’s different. That counts for something.”

She couldn’t think of anything that felt like an answer. Her phone vibrated in her hand. Just another notification. But the email was still open. The sentence still unfinished.

I just…

The cursor blinked, as if waiting for her to become someone who knew what to say.

“What about you?” she asked him, pulling herself away from the screen.

“Long black,” he said. “One sugar. I like to think I’m adventurous but not reckless.”

She smiled at that. Their coffees came out at the same time. The barista set them down without ceremony.

“Yours is this one,” he said, nudging the cup with the crooked lid toward her.

“Thanks.”

She took it, her hands cupping the warmth of the cup.

“First no-sugar coffee,” he stated.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’ll see how it goes.”

He lifted his cup, took a sip and immediately winced. “Too hot. I always do that.”

She smiled again.

“Well,” he grunted, shifting his cup to his other hand, “good luck with it.”

“Thanks. And… good luck with your medium-risk choice.”

He laughed. “I’ll take that.” There was a pause. “Nice talking to you,” he added, already half turning.

“Yeah. You too.”

He left. No big moment. Just the door, the bell, the normal continuation of the café. She stood there for a moment, then stepped aside so someone else could reach the counter.

Her phone was still in her hand. The email was still open. The sentence still unfinished.

I just…

The cursor blinked.

She closed the email.