On the Way to Work

The morning is the same as it always is.

I wake before the sun, peeling the sheets from my skin like old wallpaper, easing myself from the bed so I don’t wake him. The air is cool against my bare arms as I pad to the kitchen, where the coffee pot grumbles and steams, spitting out its offering. The cat brushes against my ankle, purring, oblivious. I pour my coffee into the same chipped mug, the one with the faint crack along the rim that I always mean to replace but never do. It fits my hand too well.

The house is quiet. The kind of quiet that used to feel like comfort but now feels like waiting. I sip the coffee and lean against the counter, staring at the back door where the first hints of dawn press against the frosted glass. Around me, the world is waking, and the lightness of spring calls, beckoning. A season of change, a season of rebirth and renewal. The scent of damp earth drifts in through the slightly open window, mingling with the smell of coffee.

I remember when he used to complain about the way I always left coffee rings on the counter. How he sighed, exasperated, wiping them away with quick, efficient strokes, muttering that it wasn’t hard to use a coaster. When I continued to forget a coaster, he eventually gave up – I was unchangeable, incoercible, uncivilized I imagined him reciting in his mind. This morning, I leave one deliberately, watching the dark imprint soak into the marble. He won’t notice it until I’m gone.

Upstairs, the bed creaks. A shift in weight. He’s turning over. Still asleep. Still warm in the space I left behind.

I exhale and go through the motions. Makeup, hair, the navy blouse I never wear because he once said the color made me look tired. I smooth it down, button the cuffs.

He didn’t mean it as an insult, he said later. Just an observation. Just like the way he noticed I never refilled the ice trays or how I left my shoes by the door or how my laugh carried too loudly in restaurants. Just observations. Just ways I was too much or not enough. I had learned long ago that there was no point in explaining or even defending. "Add it to your list," became my frequent retort.

I grab my bag and glance at the living room as I pass. The throw blanket he hated is still bunched in the corner of the couch. It was one of the few projects I finished in those days, months, and years where darkness overtook my mind. The blanket had been an anchor, something to hold onto when my mind felt like it was unraveling. When I finished it, he barely looked up from his phone. "Nice," he had murmured, then went back to scrolling. The plant I forgot to water sits wilting on the windowsill. Just like me, I think, drying up and needing a new pot.

The framed photo from our last vacation together — Montana, years ago now — stares at me from the bookshelf. We had fought on that trip. About nothing and everything. About how I wanted to wander without a plan, and he needed a strict itinerary. About how he always chose the restaurants, and I always let him. About how we made love that night with more desperation than tenderness, trying to find something we had already lost.

I remember standing at the edge of a vast, open field, staring at the mountains, feeling the pull of something bigger than myself. A voice in the back of my mind whispered, "You could leave." But I didn’t.

Not then.

My shoes echo in the hallway as I slip them on. The door shuts behind me with the same gentle click it always does.

I drive. Past the same trees, the same streetlights still winking out as the city wakes. The radio hums low, but I’m not listening. My fingers drum against the wheel. My mind wanders.

There is a bag in the trunk.

I packed it last night while he was in the shower. Just a few things. Enough.

I think about last week. The argument over dinner, over whether we should replace the couch or keep waiting. It wasn’t about the couch. It was about how he made decisions without me, about how I let him. It was about the way we never touched each other anymore unless it was necessary. It was about the way I flinched when he reached for me, and how he noticed but never said anything. 

“It will get better,” he had said. Couples go through things like this. Everyone was unhappy at times, life wasn’t a highlight reel. All cliches, but all realities. 

I think about how I went quiet during the argument, the way I always did. How I watched his lips move but heard nothing. How I stared at the couch, its fabric worn from years of use, and realized it wasn’t just a piece of furniture. It was a symbol. A placeholder for something that would never be fixed.

I tap the brakes at a red light, staring straight ahead. The realization washes over me — not like a sudden wave, not like a crash, but something quieter. A shift in the air. The sun appearing as a cloud lazily shifts past. A silent acknowledgment. I am not going home tonight. I nod — and quietly say, "Yes."

And then I realize.

My necklace. The small silver pendant my mother gave me when I turned eighteen. It rests in the ceramic dish on the dresser, the same place I’ve always kept it, forgotten in the rush of the morning. A strange ache blooms in my chest, not just for the necklace, but for something else, something I can’t name. I picture it there, catching the morning light through the window, waiting. The words “It’s never too late,” written delicately in script on the back. Too late to turn back? Never too late to start over?

I grip the wheel tighter, pressing my teeth into my lip. The coffee in my stomach is sour now, and it begins to rise in my throat.

By the time I pull into the parking lot at work, the decision has already settled into my bones. My hand is steady as I pull my phone from my bag. The app is open before I can think twice, my thumb hovering for only a second before pressing firmly.

A booking confirmation appears.

A new place. A small place. Just for now. Just until I figure it out. On the water, cheerful and bright.

I lock the car, straighten my blouse, and walk inside, feeling something close to lightness for the first time in years.