the light catches the empty space next to the second coffee mug on the counter, a particular kind of summer glare that used to be softened by a hand, a shoulder. it's not a drop in my stomach, not anymore, just this weird, almost imperceptible tilt in the air, like my internal compass is still adjusting to a landscape where north has shifted. everyone else moved on, but sometimes the table for one still feels like a wide-open plain, even when the ground feels solid.