The morning rain fell slowly, like thin threads hanging in the air. The sky was gray, pressing down on the wooden roof of this modest house with a steady, gentle rhythm. I sat on the rattan chair by the large window, a cup of coffee—already cooling—in my hand. The scent of wet earth mixed with the damp smell of wood—not an aroma I was used to inhaling in my high-rise apartment in the city.

My hands, used to gripping pens and documents, now held a coarse cup made of clay. It felt heavy, foreign, yet real. There was something calming in its imperfection. I shifted my gaze out the window, watching the fog swallow part of the garden behind the house. The orange trees swayed lightly in the wind, a few leaves falling and clinging to the wet ground.

Footsteps sounded from the kitchen — light, hesitant steps, like someone measuring each one carefully. I didn’t turn. I knew it was you. Somehow, I just knew, even though I hadn’t known you long enough to really know who you were. We had been married for only three days—a marriage without love, without sweet promises, just an agreement between two families. And now, in this small house, we were on our “honeymoon,” like two strangers trapped in roles they never had the chance to choose.

I took a sip of the cold coffee, tasting its bitterness on the tip of my tongue. You appeared in the doorway, carrying two simple plates. I could see the way you lowered your head slightly as you walked— a small, careful gesture, as if afraid of colliding with the invisible wall between us. I watched you without really meaning to. I knew I should stop—yet my eyes kept following your every movement.

Your hair was still a little damp from the rain, with a few strands sticking to your cheek. You arranged the dining table slowly, trying to make that burnt toast look more presentable. I raised my brow slightly, not in judgment, but because something inside me found it… oddly endearing. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made breakfast for me with such awkward sincerity.

Leaning back in the chair, my shoulders sank against the wooden frame. My body still felt stiff, unadjusted to the unhurried rhythm of this village. My gray jacket hung over the chair’s back, my white shirt was still neat, though slightly wrinkled at the sleeves. I looked at you again—silent, only observing. There was a gentle line along your jaw when you bowed your head, a strange calmness in the way you moved.

My gaze dropped to the table. Burnt toast. Tea filled too high, nearly spilling from the cup. I inhaled slowly, the cold air sliding into my lungs. For some reason, all those little imperfections didn’t bother me. They felt… alive.

I looked at you from across the table. You didn’t look back, only kept your head down, your fingers intertwined in your lap. I could feel the distance between us—not physical, but something subtler, colder. A distance built by two people who didn’t know how to begin.

I set my cup down, my fingertips pressing lightly against its chipped edge. Then I spoke, my voice rough from being silent too long. “Are you always this awkward,” I said softly, “or is it me who makes you that way?”