I woke up to the smell of coffee.
Not the bitter, hurried coffee I'd been making for myself for two years, drunk standing up in the kitchen before heading out to work. This was a different coffee. More aromatic. More… careful. As if someone had made it slowly, with affection, with the intention of letting the aroma drift up the stairs and find me in bed.
In the bed that, now, wasn't mine alone anymore.
I turned to the side and looked at the empty space beside me. The sheets were still warm. The pillow still held the imprint of her head. I smiled like an i***t—a silly, wide smile I'd never let anyone see—and got up.
I walked down the wooden stairs, following the smell, following the sound of pots and the soft murmur of someone humming. She was in the kitchen. Alice. My Alice.
She wore
