Morning Ritual

At the edge of nothing, I butter the bread like a prayer. Spread evenly, without thought, just muscle memory and margarine. Migraine pulses behind my eyes as outside, headlines scream in caps lock, too loud for 7:42a.m. The world keeps losing itself: shifting plates, shifting platelets, another body counted, someone yelling into a void that looks a lot like me. But the kettle hums its small anthem, and I pour it slow, like the morning could still be saved. I still live. And so do we.

_{Yan An enjoys exploring literature, sci-fi, and storytelling. He spends his time catching up with friends, cloud-watching, and drinking black coffee, in search of the small moments. Recently, he’s been watching more sunsets and finding the liminal in the everyday.}