Chapter 1 - The Burnt Toast

the year i spent missing you

The toast burns. Again.

She watches it turn a darker shade of brown, the edges curling up like they’re tired. There’s smoke, but not enough to do anything about it. She could stop the toaster. She could pull the lever and save it. But instead, she just stands there barefoot, staring, her body heavy with the kind of stillness that doesn’t want fixing.

The kitchen smells like char and memory. Outside, the city hums, unbothered. A bird screeches near the window. A car horn drags too long. Someone’s yelling about a delivery, their voice rising through the open balcony like background noise in a life she’s no longer fully in.

The toaster clicks, too late. The toast jumps up like it wants applause for surviving. It doesn’t get any.

She pours coffee into the chipped yellow mug—the one he once called “ugly cute.” It’s her favorite now. Maybe because it’s still here. Maybe because it’s slightly ruined. Black coffee. No sugar. The kind that hurts a little going down. She doesn’t flinch. She never does anymore.

The mug is hot in her hands, the kind of warm that reminds her she’s real. Some mornings she forgets.

Her phone buzzes once on the table and lights up. Then again. She doesn’t pick it up. She already knows who it’s not. That’s enough. She flips it face down and tells herself she doesn’t care.

Across the room, the corner of the mirror catches her reflection. Sleep-crushed curls, oversized sweatshirt, tired eyes. She looks like someone who used to believe in mornings.

She chews on a bite of toast that tastes more like charcoal than bread. It crumbles too easily in her mouth, like it was never meant to be whole. She doesn’t mind. It’s still something to eat. Something to do. Something to get through.

The silence in the apartment is thick. Familiar now. It’s not peaceful. It’s just there, sitting with her, like a guest who overstayed and refuses to leave.

She used to fill it with his voice. With laughter that echoed off the walls and clung to the furniture. Now it’s just her and the refrigerator humming like it's trying to be comforting.

The notebook lies open on the table next to her, half-filled with scribbles. Thoughts she was too scared to say out loud. Dates she didn’t want to remember but did anyway. She picks up the pen and writes a new line without thinking:

Day 72: Burnt toast. Bitter coffee. Still here.

She stares at the words for a few seconds, like they might offer a different meaning if she blinks long enough.

Then, she pushes the notebook aside.

There’s a list in her mind. Not the kind that gets crossed off, but the kind that loops endlessly, like a song stuck in the back of her throat.

Go for a walk.

Drink water.

Don’t text him.

Don’t check his playlist.

Don’t overthink that dream.

Don’t reread the last message.

Don’t play the voice note.

Don’t—

She exhales. Hard. Like she’s trying to get rid of everything in one breath.

The hoodie she’s wearing is hers. Finally. Not borrowed. Not stolen. Not left behind on purpose. Just hers. It's old, washed too many times, soft in the sleeves. It doesn’t smell like anyone else. She likes that. She tells herself she does, anyway.

Outside, someone laughs. The sound cuts through the stillness like a crack in a window. It catches her off guard. She hasn’t laughed like that in weeks. Not the loud kind. Not the careless kind.

She picks up the mug again. It’s cooled. The bitterness dulls with the temperature, but it’s still there.

She thinks about how many mornings started with his name in her mouth. Sometimes spoken. Sometimes whispered. Sometimes just breathed. She doesn’t do that anymore. That part of her has gone quiet.

Some days she still wants to message him. Not with big things. Just stupid ones. Like: “I saw a guy at the metro who looked like a sad version of you.” Or, “I found that band you once said was ‘too soft for your rage’—they’re actually good.” Or just a photo of the sunset, the way they used to send each other color.

But she doesn’t. Not because she doesn’t want to. But because she’s learning that wanting is not the same as deserving.

Her phone buzzes again. This time, she turns it off completely.

The toast is cold now. The bite she took earlier sits in her stomach like a stone. She doesn’t feel hungry. Not really. Just hollow in places food can’t reach.

She washes the mug. Leaves the plate in the sink. Wipes the crumbs from the counter like it means something. The wind slips in through the crack in the window, brushes against her neck. She doesn’t close it.

The sky is pale grey. Not stormy. Not bright. Just undecided. She knows that feeling.

She opens the balcony door and steps outside, lets the city noise fill the silence inside her. Cars, dogs, a scooter with a squeaky wheel, a child calling for their mother. Life, unpaused.

The wind picks up. She wraps her arms around herself, not because she’s cold, but because it helps.

She stands there for a long time.

Doing nothing. Saying nothing.

Just existing.

And somehow, today, that feels like enough.

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hello hello!! thank you so much for reading—this was chapter 1 of “the year i spent missing you,” a short story that’s been living rent-free in my drafts (and my head) for a while now. let me know if you’d want chapter 2, and also... thoughts?? feelings?? emotional damage?? i’m all ears. <3

lots of love,

kriti

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