Fresh Grounds
I crawled out of the wreckage, bent but still standing, with the weight of her lies pressed heavy on my chest, like a jacket worn too long, fraying at the seams. She had me good—hooked, caught in the web of promises that crumbled like ash when the coffee went cold.
But then there she was, sitting by the window, the sunlight spilling over her, cutting through the steam rising from her cup, her eyes clear, alive—like she'd seen enough but hadn’t given in.
I stared, not caring who noticed. No ghosts tapping on my shoulder, no regrets whispering in my ear, just her, moving like a story I could never finish.
Her smile—smooth and strong, like the first sip of something you didn’t know you needed, burning clean through the past, leaving me open, honest, ready to shed the old skins.
I told her everything— the wreckage, the ruins, the scars left by hands that weren’t mine. And she listened, not with judgment, but with the kind of silence that makes you feel seen.
She was a blank page, untouched by the ink of my past, and for once, I saw something ahead that wasn’t just the same cup, cold and bitter, waiting to be emptied.