He squeezes the toothpaste from the middle.
Three years and he still does it wrong.
She hated that. She’d stand behind him and squeeze a fresh line from the top, and he’d watch her in the mirror and say something like I’m not five and she’d say then stop brushing like you’re five.
She’d refold the towel the same way every time—ends folded in, hang it parallel to the rack. He called her particular. She didn’t disagree.
He finishes brushing. Spits. Rinses.The bathroom fan is on. He doesn't remember turning it on but it's been running all night, that low hum he stopped hearing months ago. He wipes the sink with the back of his hand—automatic—and catches himself in the mirror.Noticing.That's all. Not thinking. Just a second where the motion and the memory are the same motion, and then they're not.He turns the fan off. Walks out.
In the kitchen the light is already on. The small one above the stove. He came down to get water but now he’s standing here looking at the counter, the electric kettle, the two mugs.
One of them is hers.
He doesn’t remember why he kept it. She left it when she moved out and he didn’t throw it away and now it’s just a mug, same as the other one, used for the same thing.
He picks it up. Makes tea.
The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. He pours.
The mug is warm in his hand. He drinks standing up because the table is covered in work he was supposed to finish last night and didn’t, and the tea is good, and the apartment is quiet in a way he’s gotten used to.
He catches himself again.
Noticing that he doesn’t mind.
He finishes the tea. Rinses the mug. Sets it on the drying rack next to the other one — parallel to it, not touching.
He almost smiles.
Nothing big. Just the corner of it. The way you do when someone was right about something and you don’t feel like explaining that you know.
The morning light is coming through the window now. He opens it. Outside — the building’s laundry room below, someone starting their day.
He stands there for a moment.
Then goes to find his shoes. Six kilometers, same route. The shoes are by the door. Laces already tied.
He puts them on and goes. His calves feel a little tight before he even hits the pavement. He notes it, then steps out anyway.
Just a second where the motion and the memory are the same motion, and then they’re not.
