I still set out two cups some mornings.

Some mornings my hands still set out two cups before my head remembers.

Longing lives in habits like that. It's not always tears; sometimes it's the muscle memory of love — the way you still save the funny meme to send, still pause at their favourite song, still set the table for someone who isn't coming.

It used to embarrass me. Now I let the second cup sit there for a minute. It's a small way of saying: you mattered, and you still do.

Then I pour one, open the window, and let the day begin anyway.