The morning begins with thin, honeyed light streaming through the blinds and landing on the small square table by the window. It’s the kind of light that softens everything it touches, a light that forgives. The type of light people would call “Perfect for content.”
I move my coffee closer to the window, tilt the mug toward the glow. Aesthetic details matter: the angle, the drizzle of caramel, the cinnamon dusted like gold over white froth. I understand that beauty can be arranged, edited and filtered into meaning. If I get this right, if I can build something beautiful from the debris of my routine, the hollow inside me will shrink.
The screen glows, waiting. I take a few shots with my phone. Adjust the brightness. Add a filter that makes the world look less tired. I tilt the mug, try another angle. The swirl of milk catches the light just so, and for a moment, I almost believe in the illusion of control, of peace, of being seen.
The photos look nice. Clean. Cozy. Real, but somehow better. I post them with a caption about slowing down, staying grounded, the importance of soft mornings. The words I’m known for. The words they’re all waiting for. Within seconds, hearts start to appear — little red shapes of approval. Someone comments, “Love this!” Another: “Your mornings always look so cozy.”
And a few with the customary, “Goals.”
I scroll and reply with pink heart emojis. Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. But my chest feels strange, tight, like something in me is pretending to breathe because without it, I’ve forgotten how to.
Outside, the world is gray. A man huddles by the bus stop, his blanket the color of stormwater. He’s been there all week. Sometimes I see him lift his hands toward the sun, as if asking it to remember him. I glance back at my phone; the likes have doubled. I sip the coffee, but it tastes too sweet, and it’s gone cold.
I used to think beauty could save me. That if I paid attention to the right details, something would shift. If I could just frame things properly — the soft foam, the sunlight, the steady hand — then the world might make sense again. But the real world doesn’t care about framing. The world is bleeding, hungry, shaking itself apart.
My reflection stares back from the black screen, haloed by light and shame. The world trembles outside, and I’m here, arranging my breakfast for strangers. It feels obscene, really. The posting. The captions. The curated gratitude.
The coffee cup leaves my hand, crashing against the wall, shattering into white shards. The caramel and cinnamon streak down the plaster like wounds. I step closer, watching the brown liquid pool at the baseboard, spreading like a river. For a moment, I just stare. It’s ugly. It’s perfect. It’s honest; the broken, the messy, the disgust. This part of me that no one would ever double-tap. The part that isn’t pretending.
I kneel as the coffee seeps into the cracks of the floorboards, breathing in the sharp, sweet, and almost metallic smell. My hands are trembling, half from rage, half from something close to grief but wingless. I hover there, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside, the whisper of something breaking open inside me.
My phone buzzes again on the table snapping my attention away, the screen lighting up my mess like a stage light. New comments. New hearts. They just keep coming.
I catch my reflection on the screen again; my foundation cracked along my jaw. I must have touched it without realizing it. There’s something almost poetic about it. I remember posting once that “a little foundation could restore the foundations”, as if covering what’s broken could ever fix it. I’d felt so clever when I posted it. And then I was told as much by my followers.
I lift the phone and hover the camera over the wreckage — the ceramic shards, the pooling coffee, the wall stained like an open wound. For a second, I consider posting it. Writing something short yet vaguely confessional: Not all mornings are beautiful, or The reality behind the aesthetic. But even that feels false now, shallow. Confession itself has become a kind of performance.
I switch to selfie mode instead. My eyes are swollen from crying, makeup smudged, hair pulled loose. I stare into the lens, waiting for something, anything, I don’t know. Pity?
Validation? Meaning? The camera doesn’t offer anything, it just stares back, unblinking. I watch myself cry. I consider going Live.
Eventually, I grow bored of staring at myself and my gaze travels back to the window.
Outside, the man at the bus stop looks up. For the first time all week, he sees me watching him.
He lifts his hand and gives me the finger.
For a moment, I’m too shocked to move. Then I laugh quietly, like I’m breaking some unspoken rule and lift mine back, but only as a Hello. We hold the gesture for a second, two strangers framed in our own small acts of defiance. Then he lowers his hand, shaking his head. I lower mine and curl it into a soft fist.
One view.
Zero likes.
Perfect.
Azia Archer is a writer and artist living in Minnesota, USA. She is the author of Atoms and Evers (dancing girl press) and is currently querying her novel, Small Birds. Her work often explores memory, grief, and the shifting edges of reality. She is the Editor-in-chief of the literary newsletter Root Smoke on Substack. She can be found online at aziaarcher.com or via @aziaarcher across social platforms.
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