the steam from the black coffee, rising, swirling against my cheek, it felt like a distortion, like looking at myself through a blurred pane of glass when that riff hit, that one specific chord that used to just gut me, rip that thick cloth from my throat and leave me breathless on the floor. but it didn't do that, not this time, just a fleeting tightening in my jaw, a muscle memory of panic that quickly released, like a held breath let out finally, but it wasn't the kind of release that felt desperate or a surrender, just an acceptance of its presence, of its right to exist, the way dust motes drift above the floorboards, a memory i can almost touch but don't need to hold onto anymore, marcus and everything that came with him, a distant thrum now, a part of the background, not the whole damn symphony trying to drown me out, and the black bitterness of the coffee tastes like itself, nothing else, nothing more.