I Always Skip Breakfast

I always skip breakfast; that’s why I am never late for early appointments, although that time has now been entirely occupied by my desk job. I work handling all sorts of documents and paperwork at City Hall, without belonging to any specific department. I receive documents from all branches and carry them through the steps required for the paperwork to move forward—tasks most lawyers would rather avoid. The work involves not only filling out and printing documents, but also queuing in line to have them stamped from one department on one floor to another. I would do all the printing and form-filling at dawn and have everything ready to parade across different desks by the time the clerks were settling into their posts.

But even before this job, I had already adopted the habit of skipping breakfast—it had been five years, in fact, since I began. At that time, it was the coldest day of January, with just two weeks left of winter break before we would resume the new semester. I had woken up particularly late that day, long past my usual routine of being up by seven in the morning; it would have been even later had it not been for the rummaging cold that had penetrated the comforter lying on top of my body. The unusual coldness grazing my body caused an immediate reaction in my senses and forced my eyes open.

As I lay in bed with the comforter’s weight doing little to fend off the piercing cold, I was overtaken by a sudden wave of hunger—a kind I had never felt before, as if a whirlpool had erupted inside my stomach or a wildebeest was rummaging deep in my entrails. I understood the growling, though; it wasn’t asking for food or water. It sought a different sustenance entirely—one drawn from feelings and warmth. Something of which I barely had any reserves left as it was, and feeding it would mean hollowing myself out.

I skipped breakfast that day. No longer in need of sustenance, the whirlpool of hunger had long subsided; the deep cold surrounding the environment had seeped beyond the comforter, now filling the empty container that had once carried feelings of warmth, leaving an awkward space somewhere inside my body. I could not exactly point to it, but I was deeply aware of the void’s existence.

Although I had woken up rather late that day, I realized how much open time I now had—despite it being, at most, only a couple of hours. Not worrying about breakfast had extended the time available to me that morning. Just like with any project, modest increments of small units tend to add up over time, so those meager hours I gained would compound as time went by. I would not only be able to finish schoolwork on time, but the quality of the work itself would improve, now that I had more time to spend refining and revising. Without being haunted by the looming specter of a rapidly approaching deadline, I could immerse myself in the work with a dedication uncommon in someone starved for time.

I had revitalized my standing at university, my work being diligently turned in ahead of time, as well as taking extra courses and credits, all without slowing the pace I had begun since that day. This consistency attracted attention to my work. I was doted on for my rate and steady output. My career advisor pushed me toward workshops and research projects with professors. I could tell I had become a purposeful tool for them, with my ability to begin work at the earliest hours of the day, having their tasks completed by the time they sat down to eat breakfast—which I would lie about, telling them I already had.

“That early? I am very impressed.”

Miriam would begin meeting me after dawn, after she had noticed me one day working nearly alone in the university library in the morning’s first light. She presented herself as a research mentor in the Department of Literature and Humanities and came asking about me, worry evident in her expression at first—I stretched the credibility of my lie to its limits by telling her I was doing fine.

She had asked me to help review student submissions. My routine proved extremely beneficial to her own schedule, reassuring her of my well-being despite my early working hours. We would be the only two people in her office at the break of dawn, the only time she could do this type of work properly without being distracted, as she would admit constantly.

“Are you keeping a diet or something?” she had asked, looking at me with her arms crossed while leaning on her desk, her focus constantly shifting from the work I was supposed to do.

“No, I am not.”

I was curt with my responses. I had never been someone to delve into details or explanations, but I had noticed a shift in my personality since that cold January morning. I did not intend to respond so briefly, knowing it might come across as an insult; my capacity to respond had simply reached that point—without any effort remaining for me to change it. She did not seem to mind my behavior; rather, she appeared amused, a knowing smile forming every time I was in her office.

I would do my schoolwork in the twilight of the day, finishing whatever tasks I had, so that I could wake up early the next day with no pending work before going to the small room on campus where I would meet with Miriam. It was always open, and she would always arrive after me, carrying binders of papers with names I hadn’t seen before adorning the top of the documents. Peculiar sentences filled the pages—all of the students seemed far older, judging by the way they wrote.

Despite her diligent work routine, I couldn’t help but notice her haphazard handling of her documents—and of her job itself—bringing in papers from a distant past that had become mixed into the never-ending pile of binders.

“I don’t know why this keeps happening!” she had said one day, after I pointed out that the date on a paper she was revising had long passed. “Thank you so much—I don’t know how I did all of this before you.”

I took over the binders of the day and began shifting them into two piles, separating them by dates. Despite the differences being several decades old, the pieces of paper showed no signs of age, as if recently printed. I didn’t know what exactly she did with these documents, but acting as a filter and separating old and new papers was not difficult at all. I could sense my body searching for this feeling of purpose, and simply handling these menial tasks helped me find it. It wasn’t only that, however—knowing I was helping her with her job, that feeling had selfishly grown inside me as well.

Nearly done with half of the binders, I felt a hand resting on my shoulder—she was leaning in, looking at the piles of documents.

“You ate already?”

“I did,” I answered, before resuming with the remaining binders, trying to ignore the soft pressure on my shoulder, the other shoulder, by contrast, now awkward and cold.

“You’re going to faint in my office one of these days,” she said, with a warmth I could no longer produce. My gaze remained fixed on the work I was doing, hiding my awkward reaction to her touch—or at least I thought I was. Even if she noticed, she looked amused as she leaned in even closer to my side, speaking softly, “I’ll have to feed you myself.”

“I may be incapable of doing much eating,” I admitted. In response, the corners of her eyes formed wrinkles; her face was full of vitality despite her age—which I could only guess at this point.

“You’re so young—I’m sure you can keep up with an older woman like me,” she said, brushing my arm with her shoulder. It was barely a touch, light enough that it might have been meant as sarcasm, but her eyes lingered on mine, clearly expecting a reaction.

Without waiting for any sort of answer, she grabbed one of the piles I had neatly stacked in front of me and moved away from the small folding table she had given me, returning to her wooden desk, leaving both of my shoulders awkward and cold. I was seeking validation, or rather, a disconnected part of my mind, trotting along its own path, needed recognition.

“I should help with your other pending work,” I heard myself say, despite possibly not being able to help with anything beyond this simple task.

“Even if you are so young, I couldn’t possibly overwork you,” she said, turning around with her constant grin, extending her arms and exaggerating a stretch with a large yawn. “I don’t want to tire you out that much before the day even begins!”

She had thrown our work recklessly onto the desk, like a tower of Jenga barely standing. So far, I hadn’t fully sensed a dismissal, so I remained at my table. Even if I had wanted to leave, my need for validation would have pushed me to search for any hint of acknowledgment.

No longer did the stacks of papers hold her attention; instead, her focus lingered on my face as she leaned against her desk, her body partially blocking my view of the work we had done a couple of hours earlier, offering only that same knowing smile.

“Why don’t we have some breakfast?” she said pensively, displacing the silence surrounding us.

“I had it before coming here today.” I had skipped breakfast.

She moved away from the desk, turning toward her coat. She folded it against her chest before approaching me, now close enough that I could distinguish the small pearl earrings she was wearing.

“When I was your age, I used to think a cup of coffee was enough to survive the day,” she said, amused. She brushed my shoulder again with hers; this time the contact felt more like a gentle rebuke, accompanied by a smile that now involved the corners of her eyes. “But I don’t believe you. So why don’t you join me?”

“Fine.” My reply came out curt, perhaps sounding dismissive or annoyed, but my feelings no longer guided what my voice or actions produced.

I had heard that sound would travel differently depending on the environment it was surrounded by, such as water slowing waveforms down and distorting them before they reached our ears. Since mist consists of tiny droplets suspended in the air, it could have acted as a filter, distorting the sounds of Miriam’s high heels resounding on the pavement. The echoes of the hard rubber heel tips bounced from the ground into the atmosphere, the small reverberations colliding with the abrasive cold within the mist—fragments of them lingering alongside the light reflecting off the droplets. This distortion forced me to stay closer to her just to hear her tapping, reassuring me of her presence; a second of distraction would begin shifting her sounds into distant echoes, near the verge of disappearing.

I had been focused on the effort required to listen to this sound—her tapping becoming a consistent rhythm, each step disregarding the abrasive cold of the early day, resonating vividly throughout our journey outside the school. Guided by the sound, its sudden cessation signaled our arrival at a new location.

A pale pink glint enveloped the living room inside her home. Despite the several hours we had spent together, the clock above the sink insisted on displaying five minutes to seven, as if the light within her home were unconcerned with anything beyond the pink glare filling these walls, unbothered by the passage of time.

The sounds of the hard rubber heel tips against the pavement, once muffled, had grown clearer within this glimmer, now invigorated by a familiar environment, glissandoing in and out through the walls. Even though the sound enveloped my entire body, I still perceived it as distant whenever I failed to actively focus on her tapping.

Her sounds directed my gaze toward her at every moment. She moved through her home unconcerned with the glint surrounding it, reaching for the sofa between the living room and the kitchen, setting down her coat and handbag, then adjusting her white top before turning back to face me.

“It’s so cold, isn’t it?” she said as her tapping drew closer, wrapping her arms around herself and embracing her shoulders.

“I feel fine.” I was honest.

She kept her gaze on my eyes, searching for a reaction with a smile. She brought her right arm—no longer hugging her shoulders—toward my chest, placing a gentle palm at its center.

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” No longer smirking, she looked down at her palm resting against my chest, as if noticing it for the first time.

“A little bit.” I was lying.

“Let me try something,” she said, pulling her head closer, her hand still caught between our bodies.

“Like what?” my body asked.

She looked up—I was only a head taller than her. I felt her hand slip free from between us and rise to my cheek. “Warming you up.”

I woke to the same cold that had disturbed me months ago. This time it felt like an unannounced visitor, making its way in without regard, causing discomfort beneath an unfamiliar set of white wool blankets. I lay still on the sofa beside the kitchen, my eyes closed, searching for the sound of her tapping—before realizing I was alone beneath the pink glint in the living room.

Before I could settle into the unfamiliar environment, a sinking pain spread across my body, from the center of my stomach toward my bare chest, displacing the cold that had penetrated the blankets. My hand drifted there without instruction as my body responded with a low, soft growl. I had forgotten the sound of my own body asking for food. I looked toward the clock above the sink; it stubbornly presented seven sharp in the morning.

Despite dressing quietly, the rustle of fabric echoed in the air. I listened attentively, waiting for a tapping that never returned, even after I finished slipping into my clothes. Unaware of how much time had passed, I decided to skip breakfast—though I could no longer tell whether it counted as breakfast at all.

I had heard of the side effects of quitting an addiction; I had not experienced one myself until now. Every morning, I felt discomfort after forcibly dragging my body away from food. I needed the time I had previously spent eating to maintain my pace of work, yet an unease within my hollowed body caused headaches, disrupting my routine whenever I worked on an empty stomach. Ever since I had been left behind by Miriam, I could not quell that discomfort—my body rejecting my orders not to waste time on food.

The symptoms worsened in times of low light—early in the day and at night. After a few days of skipping breakfast, I began hearing the tapping echoing in a swirl through the air. If I fell asleep while working, I would be woken by the vivid bouncing of the tapping on the hard floor; however, I would be greeted only by the gray tint of night, now focusing on that sound while the ensuing insomnia prevented me from resting.

I had not seen Miriam since that day. She was never in the room where I had helped her after she brought me to her home. She had been the one to ask for my help, yet I was unaware of her actual schedule; she was awake extremely early—just as I was—and trying to arrive at the same hour we had met before proved fruitless. I did not dare arrive even earlier. I did not know what she might think if I did—we had long since passed the point of academic professionalism, and I was unsure what distance I should keep.

By my senior year, I was completing my mandatory social service at City Hall, a graduation requirement at my university. There was no distinct role or specific department to which I was assigned; I rotated among offices with different purposes. Yet all were immersed in the same medium: forms and paper. As I grew accustomed to the initial procedures each department required, my efficiency improved. Eventually, the lawyers and their secretaries felt comfortable relying on me with increasingly complex workloads. I began using the early hours of dawn to prepare documents before the clerks reached their desks. Deep down, I knew I was searching for this arrangement—I wanted to recreate the pace of work that had once allowed me to skip breakfast and begin working at dawn without feeling tired.

At first, I forced myself, battling the headaches. But as the days accumulated, effort overtook pain—or rather, as in an unhappy marriage of twenty years, routine prevailed. My body molded itself into the habit, no longer interested in arguing back.

It did not go without a fight, however.

I felt strength sap from my body. My mind would decide on an action, and my body would comply, though with significant lethargy, as if suffering the side effects of a wish granted by a genie. I could not argue back; it was my own body, after all.

Fortunately, my work involved mostly sitting and typing. The real challenge came when moving between departments and clerks across different floors. The elevator in the hall did not work—I did not know where the tax funds allocated for a technician had gone—but the fact remained that I had to take the stairs. Every step became a negotiation with my own body.

Through sheer perseverance, I made it throug my final year at university. There was little difficulty in graduating as a communications major; I attained a nine point five final average, enough to graduate without projects or a thesis. I did have to take the national exam, like most other fields. The exam was not difficult, but it was long, riddled with basic questions that piled one after another. Unlike my work at City Hall, this exam exhausted me entirely—my eyes had read enough black letters for a year.

After submitting my exam to the proctor, I exited the classroom and headed straight for the stairs. With practice, I leaned into the railings and placed one foot after the other, letting gravity do most of the work to settle my steps. I had learned this technique to conserve energy while traversing endless stairwells, avoiding unnecessary strain on my body.

Halfway to the second floor, I heard the hard rubber tapping of her heel tips reverberating in the back of my head. I did not turn around. Instead, I closed my eyes and listened.

Three short taps.

The rustle of paper.

More tapping.

When I opened my eyes, my body had already turned and begun climbing the stairs. I knew where it was headed—the same classroom at the top of the building, the room that was never locked.

Little had changed. It had only been a year, not long enough for much to alter, yet I was surprised by the confidence with which I made the journey—one that had once been routine. As if I had never stopped coming here at all, my body pushed through the final flights, turned right, and headed toward the familiar room.

I opened the door and was greeted by the same arrangement I had seen every morning the year before: a wooden desk, my folded workstation, a chair, and little else to distract the eye. A set of binders lay haphazardly atop the desk. The room was otherwise empty.

I approached the desk and examined the papers. They offered little help in determining whether someone had placed them there recently—the dates on them were decades old. Once again, outdated documents had found their way into this room. Even the condition of the paper itself was contradictory, showing no signs of age, as if recently printed. Yet the content and the names had clearly been imprinted a long time ago. I had never given them much thought while sorting them by date, never realizing what purpose they served.

Without thinking further, I sat at her desk and began organizing them again, stacking the binders neatly according to date. Somehow, it felt appropriate—as one last attempt to help her, to earn her approval.

By the time my task neared completion, the sun had settled on the horizon, releasing shadows from its oppressive glare. I did not realize how long I had been there until I found myself straining to read, the black ink merging with the encroaching darkness.

I tried to stand, but my body had settled into a stubborn heaviness, exhausted from the work. I pushed myself upright, only for my knee to strike the desk and send the stacks of papers spilling onto the floor. I bent to retrieve them, but I could barely see. Still, I knelt, reaching downward—yet the motion did not stop. There was no solid ground, no floor to meet me. My body and mind, for the first time in a long while, agreed.

Recognizing the disorientation too late, my consciousness slipped away.

Perhaps, after spending so long training my ear to hunt for sound, it was that sense which finally woke me. The soft murmur of a singing voice slowly raised my consciousness. I couldn’t easily distinguish the lyrics Miriam was singing; it was too soft to fully understand, but the melody echoed inside my mind, demanding to be remembered.

“Pretty old song,” I pointed out—that was all I could recall. She looked down and confirmed the signs of life in my eyes, her pupils swinging from left to right as a short smile formed. It didn’t register until I saw that smile that I was resting in her lap, lying on the floor where I had fainted.

“It is,” she confirmed. Her hand began stroking my head, as if grooming my hair. “I used to dance with my mother when it came out.”

To dance and to enjoy,

That it almost feels like I’m in Havana,

She continued singing, the lyrics interplaying with the familiar melody.

“It reminds me of you,” she said, with a knowing grin.

“What does?”

“The song,” she said. “Bonito y Sabroso.” After a pause, her smile fully formed. “Pretty and tasty—just like you.” She poked the tip of my nose.

I braced my hands against the floor and slowly turned, Miriam allowing my head to slip from her lap. Now seated directly in front of her, I studied her face. She wore the same white blouse she always had, the same pearl earrings framing the smile she kept for me in this room.

One of my arms lifted on its own and reached for her cheek. The resistance of her weight against my palm startled me—too solid and warm to belong to a dream. She didn’t reject my attempt to prove her physical presence, instead she leaned into my hand, allowing her face to be held there, caressed by my timid palm.

After indulging me, I pulled myself closer to her, leaning towards her lips but she turned her face sideways. I could only see half the smile she kept in the moon lit room.

“We can’t—not here,” she said in response to my advance.

“Will you be gone again?”

She turned her face, meeting my gaze. It set up a game of looks: I would follow her eyes dipping down toward my mouth, and as I did, she would turn them back up, smirking. I felt her hands embrace both of my cheeks, as if trying to hold my eyes in place.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

I expected her to continue, but she remained silent, my head held between her hands. Her smile finally relaxed into a firm expression.

“Have you eaten yet?” she said, gravely.

“I had breakfast today,” I said, lying.

She let go of my head and placed her palm in the middle of my chest, her eyes closed, as if counting the beats per minute of my pulsing body.

“So why do you sound so empty?” she asked, slowly opening her eyes.

As if reaching a decision, she stood up, taking with her the warmth created by the proximity of our bodies. She helped me up with an extended arm, pulling me to my feet. She didn’t let go of my arm.

“Let’s go, then,” she said. “I’ll feed you myself.”

Combining two senses somehow amplified the perception of each. I realized this with my ears being caressed by the tapping of her walk and my eyes fixed on her heels. I followed closely behind her, dragged softly by her extended arm, my vision never leaving her feet. I reached a point where I could perceive the milliseconds of delay between the sole of her shoe touching the hard ground and the reverberation reaching my ears, the out-of-phase phenomenon keeping me on edge. I wondered if my own body could produce such anomalies.

At some point I found the rhythm in the tapping, it was coinciding ever so slightly with the cadence of my beating heart—phasing in and out of tempo as we traversed the same path we had taken a year ago. The hard pavement scored with the notes of our footsteps, the clave demarcated by the shining moon above our heads.

The out-of-phase tapping lingered for a second even after I registered her stopping with my vision, the reverberation longing for continuation though its source had fully ceased. We had reached the same house, and with the same ease as before, she pushed through, leading me in as if it were only natural.

Despite the cold exterior, the warmth of the interior was always present within the pink glint of the living room. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting my mind be washed by memories of the past year. Unaware of how much time had passed, I scanned everything I had done while feeling the temperature of my skin rise beneath the glow of the pink glint. My rumination was interrupted by the sound of tapping approaching me.

I heard her say in a soft, mocking tone. “You didn’t come here just to eat air!”

As she laughed, she brought her body close to mine and leaned her head against my chest. “You’re so light already,” she said, the laughter gone.

I was jealous of her ability to shift between emotions so naturally. She always showed the correct inflection, the right words, and the precise touch to leave a lasting impact.

Without opening my eyes, I took her into my arms. If sound and vision could heighten one another, then holding her without sight would saturate the feeling of our bodies together.

My body, ignoring my demands, opened my eyes and searched for her face, but was met only with the top of her head. My arm, cooperating with my gaze, found her chin and lifted her face. A stranger first reflected in her pupils; it took me a second to recognize my own face—disheveled and sunken. Yet deep inside, there was a glint in those eyes which I assumed were mine. As if looking at an old school photo and recognizing your younger self within the group, I saw the spark of my mind reflected back at me through Miriam’s pupils.

My gaze was soon distracted by the smile returning to her lips. As my eyes focused on her mouth, my stomach produced a soft, muffled rumble between our pressed bodies. She acknowledged the sound with a slight lift of her eyebrows and a dimple forming in her smile before leaning fully toward me and kissing me. Without any movement, simply bonding our lips together, the only oscillation being the breathing coming out of our noses tickling each other’s faces. The rumbling at the center of my body began to fade, as if its presence had been rejected, retreating slowly into a lower decibel.

I wanted to agree with the clock above the sink—after rejecting its suggestion of time before, I now wanted to be immersed in the world where it was still five minutes till seven. While holding her body and lips with mine, I suspended my movements, as if every twitch might advance the minute hand, listening for the mechanical ticking.

The sound that found its way into my ears was not the clock, but the soft parting of Miriam’s lips from mine. Despite the delicacy of her separation, we could not conceal the sounds of our own bodies. I hastily confirmed the hour again, searching for the reading in the clock. I didn’t want to startle her with my abrupt movement, but insecurity overtook my tact.

Understanding my concern, she allowed my eyes to drift towards the kitchen, letting me confirm the stillness that reflected the same hour imprinted in the motionless clock. After an amount of time I could not measure, she guided my gaze back to her with her palm, returning the gesture when I lifted her chin in turn.

“It’s not time for breakfast yet,” her tone telling me to not worry, as if my concern had been a silly one.

No longer were my actions under any logic coming from my mind. I reacted instead to impulses long dormant within my body, now controlling even my speech. “I want you by my side when I wake up.”

I feared the same outcome as a year ago, her expression telling me she understood what I meant.

“What for?” she replied with a pout unfitting for an older woman, “you always skip breakfast anyway.”

“I’ll eat with you everyday.” I heard myself promise.

Her eyes revealed how pitiful I looked pleading with her. Her arms gently pushed me away as she slipped free from my hold.

“You’ve lied to me many times already, haven’t you?” she said softly, her tone neutral, as if reading a student’s report. “But you can’t lie to your body—about what it needs.”

She was barely one step away from me, but her reflection seemed much more far away, as if my reaching arm would simply smear her image from the world, erasing her entirely.

Unconscious to my actions, I brought my arm towards my stomach. I didn’t feel pain, or hunger, I just felt empty.

“I want to feel full again.” My voice carried no emotion, like reading an item from a grocery list. Realizing I was empty did not surprise me.

I felt her hand landing on top of my own, the combined warmth piercing through my abdomen. I hadn’t noticed her approach; her footsteps had made no sound.

Taking me by the hand, Miriam led me into the kitchen. She seated me in a chair before rummaging through the old cabinets for utensils, none of her movements registering any sound to my ears, as if a gate had been placed within me—her sounds too faint to break through the threshold. She neatly arranged a fork and knife in front of me, her smile never fading.

I had never seen this side of her: performing tasks with her hands and body gracefully, as if by second nature—traversing the kitchen with ease, wielding knives and spatulas far better than she ever managed the binders she stacked so haphazardly. Like an old film, her movements registered without sound. I wondered if I had lost that sense altogether, but I was reassured when I moved and heard the fabric of my clothes rustling against the wooden chair. I glanced at the clock above the sink—it now read four minutes to seven. I tried to catch the minute hand moving, but it remained shy beneath my gaze; I wondered whether it would resume its progress only in the absence of another sense acting upon it.

I wouldn’t know, as my attention returned to the table. Miriam placed a plate between the utensils. She circled the table and reached my side, leaning closer towards my ears, “Breakfast is ready!”

The return of her voice inside my ears shook my entire body, with her usual sweet intonation enveloping my senses. As if it had been a command, my body moved on its own, trying to pull her closer.

“What are you doing?” she laughed, pulling me gently back into the chair and tapping my nose. “It’ll get cold—you need to eat first, alright?”

A partial smile crossed her face as I continued looking at her, quietly resisting. She turned, dragged another chair beside mine, and sat down without a word. She picked up a fork, dividing an omelette that reflected a soft peach light, the yellow of the egg blending with the pink glow around us.

The steam rising from the fork reached my face and lingered there. Miriam held her palm beneath it to catch anything that might fall. She looked at me with quiet expectation, waiting for me to comply; now her smile felt more teasing. After a moment, she mouthed eat without a sound.

Her hand was gentle, treating me as something fragile, feeding me with passive movements. Her hand cutting into the plate, raising it towards me and ensuring I would eat it. I had long since abandoned resistance, allowing her to feed me. She smiled each time I accepted the bite, almost proudly. We were immerse in such silence that I heard the faint echo of the minute hand lazily advancing.

When I was presented by the sight of the empty plate—the last bite of the omelette gone from her fork—weariness settled over me, my body growing heavier. She stood and took my hand, guiding me to the sofa. As soon as she left me there, I sank into the cushions. She returned to the kitchen with the plate and utensils, setting them by the sink. I couldn’t hear any running water.

Above her silhouette, the clock had played a trick on me and now read two minutes to seven. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the sounds around me; only my own breathing echoed back from the walls.

Another sense sharpened when I felt warmth spreading through my hand—the pressure of another body leaning into me. I felt her embrace, her arms circling my chest. When I opened my eyes, Miriam was lying on the sofa, her head resting on my shoulder. I moved my arm to draw her closer—she offered no resistance, her feet shifting lightly against the cushions.

When I tried to lift her face toward me, she hid it against my chest—a complete shift from her earlier composure, now almost pouting in my arms. I straightened, no longer absorbed by the sofa, gently forcing her face into view.

She looked tired, as if the previous day had kept her standing for hours. Her smile was present but there was no energy in her skin, her eyes had filled with moisture and looked closer to being shut than fully open. I cupped her face, letting it rest in my palm, trying to bring warmth back to her skin. Her smile only grew bigger but her eyes remained nearly closed.

The mechanical ticking echoed unnoticed across the room, but I no longer cared. My focus rested entirely on the woman hovering between sleep and wakefulness.

She pushed herself up against the cushion, lifting herself just enough to brush my lips with a brief kiss, leaving a lingering warmth behind. The kiss lasted only a fraction of a second, more like a greeting than anything else. Still close, she leaned toward my ear.

“Good morning,” she whispered, warm and soft.

The pink glint had nearly faded, lingering only at the edges of the clock, which now read seven o’clock.

An array of singing birds flooded the house, the sound of chirping and a distant car driving past reverberated within the walls. Morning light painted the walls in pale gray, warming my skin.

I never saw the minute hand move, yet it had resumed its work, measuring the passing minutes as I sat on the sofa watching the morning unfold.

Without reason, I simply stood. The sofa, deformed by the weight of one body, slowly returned to its original shape, its folds easing back into place. As I made my way toward the door, the urge to check the time rose again, but I did not look back. I knew it was still early, yet for my routine it was already past breakfast—and I had already eaten.

I would skip breakfast, at least for today.