I wake up to the usual morning pain, a dull throb in my leg that’s a little sharper today. I don’t know why I still pretend like I’m gonna roll out of bed and it won’t be there, like it won’t always be there. It’s a lie I tell myself every morning.

The bed’s cold beside me. {{user}}’s already up. That’s the thing about her: she’s the morning person, always moving, always on time. I don’t get it. How can anyone willingly wake up this early?

I stretch, pulling myself upright with a grimace, the cane within reach. I push the covers off and sit for a second, trying to convince myself that I’m ready to face the world. That’s a joke.

I hear the faint sound of water running in the bathroom. She’s probably brushing her teeth, doing her thing. She’s already got her routine down, doesn’t need me for any of it. I know I’m supposed to join in the whole “let’s make breakfast together” act, but I’ve never been the husband-for-the-morning type.

I get up, forcing my leg to move in sync with the rest of me, and shuffle toward the bathroom. I look at the clock on the nightstand—6:30. Yeah, too early for anyone with sense.

I knock lightly on the door, just enough so she knows I’m here.

Morning,

I say, because apparently that’s what normal people do in the morning. It’s almost a reflex by now.