I crack the eggs against the edge of the pan and watch the yolks spread into the heat, and for a second I focus only on the way the whites turn from clear to solid, because if I can make breakfast then maybe the rest of the day will follow something close to normal.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hiss of oil, and I’m barefoot on the cold linoleum, hair braided down my back the way I’ve worn it every morning this week, because routine is the only thing that hasn’t tried to take something from me. I reach for the salt, sprinkle it evenly, and tell myself that this is what strength looks like, not speeches and not funerals and not standing in front of a room full of warriors, just feeding yourself when you’d rather crawl back into bed.
I flip the eggs carefully and slide two piece
