The Hum Beneath

Lena had never quite figured out how to stop the noise in her mind. It was a constant hum, a low buzz that seemed to vibrate behind her eyes, the way an old fluorescent light flickered in a room long after the switch was turned off. Sometimes it felt like a swarm of bees, trapped in her skull, their wings beating relentlessly against her temples. The sensation wasn’t just metaphorical—she could feel it, the way her head throbbed, pulsing with the force of thoughts she couldn’t control. Each thought was a sharp, insistent sting, a reminder of something undone, a choice she’d made years ago that led her here, to this moment of stasis.

There were days when it felt like her thoughts came at her like waves crashing against jagged rocks, loud and furious, impossible to outrun. She had tried everything to silence them. Yoga, long walks, even meditation, but they always returned. A new worry would float up, a forgotten task, a word she hadn’t said to someone she’d meant to. The hum turned into a relentless clamor, like the high-pitched ringing in your ears after standing too close to a loudspeaker at a concert. It pressed in on her, a thick, choking pressure behind her chest, a tightness that felt like the walls were closing in.

Her head was heavy, and her neck stiff. A dull headache had been there all day, a constant companion that pulsed with every beat of her heart. She reached up and rubbed her temples absently, the motion as much a reflex as it was an attempt to chase away the ache.

She stepped toward the window, hoping the sight of the empty street below would offer some sense of relief, but it didn’t. The world outside was just as quiet as her apartment, the evening air cold and still. A light dusting of snow had begun to fall, catching the streetlights in its delicate shimmer. But the beauty of the scene didn’t reach her. It never did, not when her mind was so loud.

The noise swirled around in her thoughts, faster now—more urgent, impossible to ignore. Why hadn’t she called back that person last week? What had she said in that meeting, and how could she have said it differently? Why hadn’t she gone to the gym today? Or any day this week, for that matter?

Each thought looped back on itself, swirling into the next one. Her chest tightened again, and she pressed a hand to it, trying to steady her breathing. But it didn’t help. It only made it worse. A crackle in her throat, a knot in her stomach.

Her phone buzzed behind her on the counter, pulling her from the spiral. She knew who it was—her mother. Another check-in, another question about how she was doing. Lena could already hear the concern in her mother’s voice, that low, tender worry that she always tried to mask behind her usual questions.

“You don’t sound like yourself, Lena,” her mother had said just an hour ago. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You seem distant.”

But Lena had laughed it off, too quickly, perhaps too brightly. “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired. Work’s busy.” The words felt hollow as soon as they left her mouth, but she didn’t know how to explain what was really going on. What could she say? The world felt like it was moving on without her, and she couldn’t keep up. She had no answers, no solutions. Just the noise. The overwhelming, suffocating noise.

Her gaze drifted back to the kitchen, where the kettle sat on the stove, waiting.

Tea. It was always tea. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small moment of ritual, of stillness. It was a comfort she could rely on when the noise was too much, when the weight in her chest felt unbearable. The thought of it—the warm cup, the steam rising lazily from the surface, the gentle heat that spread through her fingers—was a balm in the middle of everything. It was the one thing that had never let her down.

Lena moved toward the stove, reaching for the kettle. The handle was cool against her palm, smooth and familiar, a small reassurance in her hands. She turned the tap, letting the water rush into the kettle, and for a moment, the noise in her mind quieted, replaced by the rhythmic sound of the water filling the glass container. It was such an ordinary task, one she had done a thousand times before, but there was something soothing about the steady flow of the water. It was predictable, unlike the turmoil in her mind. It was simple.

She set the kettle on the stove, her fingers lingering on the handle for just a moment longer than necessary. There was something grounding about this—the weight of the kettle, the sense of purpose in the motion. The water in the kettle seemed to take on a life of its own, shifting and bubbling in the quiet space of her kitchen. It was almost as if, in this small, contained ritual, she could slow the world around her down, just for a little while. The tension in her shoulders lessened, the tightness in her chest loosening, though only just.

Lena reached for her favorite mug from the cabinet. The porcelain felt warm in her hands, familiar in a way that no one else had ever been. It had been a gift from a friend years ago—someone she hadn’t spoken to in months, maybe years. The mug was chipped, slightly cracked around the rim, but it was hers. It was hers, even if everything else felt uncertain, even if she wasn’t sure of who she was anymore.

She set the mug down on the counter and opened the drawer beneath it, pulling out the small box of tea bags. The box was dented, the edges soft from years of use. She removed one of the bags, the paper crinkling softly in the silence. It wasn’t much—a simple black tea, the kind that you could get at any corner store. It wasn’t special, but it was familiar. It was something she didn’t have to think about.

The kettle began to hiss softly as it heated. Lena could smell the faint metallic tang of steam rising from the spout. She didn’t move from the counter, but instead let herself breathe, watching the way the steam curled up, winding in delicate spirals in the dim light of the kitchen. There was something mesmerizing about it, a rhythm she could follow, a pattern she could trace with her eyes.

The kettle whistled, and she poured the hot water into her mug. The tea bag swirled in the liquid, releasing its deep brown color, the warm scent of tea filling the air. The steam rose up, almost like an invitation. The tea wasn’t just something to drink—it was a ritual, an anchor. Each sip was a reminder to pause, to slow down, to exist in the moment.

As the tea steeped, Lena closed her eyes for a moment. The warmth from the mug spread through her hands and up her arms, a simple comfort that seemed to seep into her bones. The noise in her head hadn’t fully disappeared, but for the first time in hours, it seemed quieter, softer. The tightness in her chest had loosened, just a little. She could almost hear the steady tick of the clock on the wall, the way the seconds moved at their own pace.

Her fingers wrapped around the warm mug, the heat traveling through her skin. There was something so soothing about it—about holding something warm, about drinking something so familiar. It was as though, in this small act, she could gather all the scattered pieces of herself that had been lost in the noise. Tea, simple tea, was a moment where she didn’t have to think about the next task, the next worry. It was a moment of stillness. A moment to breathe.

The tea was still too hot to drink, but Lena didn’t mind. She stood there for a moment, letting the warmth of the mug sink into her palms, letting the quiet of the kitchen settle around her. The kettle was silent now, and the only sound left was the soft breathing in her chest, the steady rhythm that grounded her.

Maybe the noise wouldn’t go away, not completely. Maybe it would always be there, hovering in the background like a distant storm. But in this moment, with the warmth of tea in her hands, she could hold it off, just for a while. Maybe that was enough.