Mornings felt colder now, even though it was the middle of summer. Amina woke up to the sun glaring through the curtains, but it didn't feel warm. The coffee was lukewarm. The silence louder.
She didn't make Clara's coffee today.
She didn't feel like it.
It wasn't an act of rebellion, just a quiet choice. One tiny thread of herself she decided to keep.
Clara didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't say anything. She walked past Amina with a towel on her head, phone in hand, scrolling and smiling at something Amina wasn't a part of. That smile used to be shared with her, back when they'd stay up talking about boys and bad dates, laughing over cheap wine and toast at midnight.
But things shifted, as they always seemed to do. People moved on. People moved around her. Like she was a piece of furniture in their life. Reliable. Unmoving.
Amina looked at her phone. Still no message from Mason.
Three days now.
She typed out a message—Hey. Are we okay?—and stared at it for a long moment. Then she deleted it. What was the point of reaching out when her hand was always the only one stretched out?
At work, her boss dropped a stack of documents on her desk and asked if she could stay late again.
"Of course," Amina said automatically. Her smile was muscle memory by now.
"You're a lifesaver," he said without looking at her.
She nodded, even though she didn't want to save anyone anymore. She just wanted someone to save her.
It was lunchtime when she opened Instagram. She knew she shouldn't. The app had become more of a self-esteem minefield than anything else lately. But something pulled her there, like habit or hope or both.
The first post was from Tasha—her best friend since high school—grinning in a selfie with three other girls at a brunch place they used to go to together. "Brunch with the real ones," the caption read.
The real ones.
Amina stared at the screen like it had just slapped her.
They had made that plan together. Weeks ago. Tasha had said they'd reschedule. She had said, "I'll let you know."
Apparently, she never did.
The betrayal wasn't loud. It didn't come with a confrontation or an explosion. It was quiet, like most of the betrayals in Amina's life. A subtle reminder that when people outgrow you, they usually forget to tell you.
She locked her phone and put it face-down on her desk.
That evening, as she walked home in the fading light, she passed a bookstore and stopped. She used to go in all the time. She hadn't stepped inside in months.
Something made her go in.
She browsed without looking for anything in particular. Her fingers trailed the spines of novels until she stopped at a self-help book she'd seen before online. "The Art of Being Alone."
The title made her feel a little too seen.
She bought it without thinking, tucked it under her arm, and headed home.
Her apartment felt heavy. She dropped her bag and collapsed onto the bed, the book still clutched to her chest like a lifeline. She didn't open it yet. She just held it.
Maybe she wasn't ready to read how to fix herself. Maybe she just needed something to remind her that she wasn't crazy for feeling this way. That other women had felt this same ache—of being left out, forgotten, dismissed. That other hearts had broken quietly too.
Later, after a dinner of toast and tea, she opened the book. Just the introduction. Just a few lines.
But it felt like someone reaching out through the pages, holding her hand.
"You are not hard to love," the author had written. "You just keep giving your heart to people who don't know what to do with it."
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them.
She wasn't sad anymore. Not in the way that demanded tissues or silence. She was just tired. Tired of asking for space in hearts that had no room. Tired of shrinking so others could stay comfortable.
She opened her notebook and wrote, "I am no longer waiting to be chosen. I choose me."
Then she closed it.
For the first time in a long time, she felt something strange—something like peace.
The next morning, she made only one cup of coffee.
For herself.