Naomi woke before her alarm, the soft hum of dawn pressing gently against her blinds. A pale beam of sunlight slipped into the room, brushing over the scattered books on her nightstand, the half-empty glass of water, and the lavender candle she had forgotten to blow out. For once, she hadn't needed the shrill insistence of her 8 a.m. reminder to pull her out of sleep; her body had beaten it, restless but refreshed, as though the night had stirred something new in her.She reached out, silencing the alarm before it could sound, smiling faintly at the small victory. It wasn't much, but to wake without rushing—without the usual scramble to put herself together—felt like a kind of grace. Naomi stretched, letting her limbs breathe against the soft sheets, before slipping out of bed.
The hardwood floor was cool under her feet, a grounding contrast to the quiet warmth humming in her chest.Her mood was lighter than it had been in days, as though the call with Tasha last night had anchored her just enough. She padded toward the bathroom, tying her silk robe as she went. "Alexa, some morning motivation, please," she called over her shoulder, her voice still husky from sleep.The speaker on her dresser flickered to life, releasing a cascade of words that seemed to fall in rhythm with her footsteps. "Remember, today is not a repetition of yesterday. It is a canvas—fresh, untouched, waiting for your stroke of courage."Naomi paused at the threshold of the bathroom, her reflection catching her eye in the hallway mirror.
Her hair tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders, her skin marked with the faint creases of sleep. She studied herself for a heartbeat longer than usual. She looked… softer. Not the overworked version of herself she had grown accustomed to seeing. For once, there was a spark in her gaze.She tilted her head, almost amused. "A canvas," she murmured, echoing the voice, "maybe it's about time I actually painted something new."
The shower hissed to life, steam swirling upward to fog the glass. As the water cascaded over her, Naomi closed her eyes and let the warmth sink into her muscles. It wasn't just about washing away sleep—it was about shaking free of yesterday, of all the sharp corners of memory that still managed to cut her when she least expected it. The sting of the supermarket wine aisle. The way Jeremiah's face had appeared behind her eyelids last night, uninvited but stubborn. His laugh, his umbrella, that rain-slick day when love had felt simple.She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, inhaling deeply as the motivational words continued to drift faintly from the speaker in her room. "Every choice you make today builds the life you'll thank yourself for tomorrow."A quiet laugh escaped her lips. "Then I'd better not screw up breakfast," she whispered, reaching for the citrus-scented body wash.By the time she stepped out of the shower, her bathroom was a cloud of mist, the mirror fogged over so thickly she could only make out a faint outline of herself. She wiped a small circle clear with her palm, meeting her own eyes again.There it was—that flicker, that whisper of something inside her that wasn't weighed down. She dabbed moisturizer onto her cheeks, humming softly as she wrapped her robe tighter and padded back into her bedroom.The city was waking up outside her window—the distant hum of cars, the bark of a dog somewhere down the block, the chatter of a radio drifting from the neighbor's open balcony.
Naomi moved with unhurried precision, selecting her clothes with more care than she usually did on a weekday morning. She chose a crisp white blouse, pairing it with soft gray slacks, and slipped on a gold pendant Jeremiah had given it to her on her birthday.
It was a small rebellion against herself; she hadn't worn it in weeks, but today, it felt right.As she fastened the clasp, she caught the way it rested against her collarbone, gleaming faintly in the morning light. Her hand lingered there for a moment. Not everything from the past had to hurt. Some things could simply remind her she had once loved deeply—perhaps too deeply
In the kitchen, she brewed coffee, its rich aroma filling the small space as she slid bread into the toaster. She leaned against the counter, sipping slowly when the machine beeped, savoring the quiet ritual. Most mornings felt like survival, each step a rush against the clock. But this one,this one felt different. As though she had carved out space to breathe, to be present.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the marble. Naomi glanced at it, expecting a message from Tasha or maybe a reminder from work. Instead, the screen lit up with an unfamiliar number. Her brows knit together, curiosity stirring in her chest.For a second, she let it ring, unwilling to disturb her fragile peace. But the number didn't go away—it kept flashing insistently, humming against the counter like a pulse she couldn't ignore.She reached for it, hesitating, the weight of choice in her fingers. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe, like Alexa had said, today really was a canvas—and this call, this unknown voice waiting on the other side, was the first brushstroke.Naomi exhaled, steadying herself, and pressed accept
."Morning, Naomi."The voice on the other side of the phone carried a calm ease, threaded with a faint humor she recognized instantly. She stilled, her hand tightening around her coffee mug.It was Michael.
For a heartbeat, she considered pretending the connection was bad, but instead she slipped into her practiced armor. Her voice smoothed into polite formality."Morning… who, please?" She asked, feigning ignorance.On the other end, a chuckle rolled through the receiver, low and disbelieving. "Really? Michael. Your manager."Naomi allowed herself a small, silent smile but kept her tone cool. "Oh. Sorry. Didn't realize you had my number."There was a pause, then his voice softened. "Yeah, I pulled it from your file—the home contact. I figured it was the quickest way to reach you this morning. I thought of calling your office line, but… well, you wouldn't be there yet, would you?"The corner of Naomi's mouth tugged upward despite herself. He was right, of course. Still, something about him calling her personal phone—this early, while she was in her kitchen with her hair half-pinned and her mug steaming—felt strangely intimate.She shifted in her chair, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Right. Right," she murmured, nodding though he couldn't see.Michael cleared his throat, professional again. "I just wanted to check in on that survey we discussed yesterday. I won't be able to make the morning meeting, so if you could send the data directly through email, it'll help me get eyes on it before end of day.""Of course," Naomi said quickly, setting her mug aside and reaching instinctively toward the laptop resting on the counter. The machine blinked awake, casting a soft glow across her face. "I'll send it right away.""Appreciate it." His voice lingered, almost as if he wanted to add something else. Then, simply: "Thanks, Naomi."The line went dead.Naomi stared at her phone a moment longer before setting it down gently beside the laptop.
The kitchen returned to its hum of silence, broken only by the tick of the clock and the faint bubbling of her coffee machine keeping the pot warm.She pulled in a deep breath.Why did it feel like the call had shifted something subtle in her morning? It wasn't unusual for Michael to reach out—he was her manager, after all. But the way he had said her name, the way his laugh had threaded into her chest, it lingered. She didn't want it to. She didn't want to read into it, not when her heart still held the ache of Jeremiah's absence, not when memories had crept into her dreams the night before.She opened her email and began drafting the survey attachment, her fingers moving with muscle memory. But her mind kept replaying the conversation: his easy laugh, her deliberate pretense of not knowing it was him, the gentle way he had said "Appreciate it."Her pulse skipped. It wasn't attraction, she told herself. It couldn't be. She had promised herself she wouldn't let anyone fill the space Jeremiah had vacated—not yet, maybe not ever.But loneliness was cunning. It slipped through cracks like morning sunlight, unavoidable, warm where she didn't expect warmth.
The kettle clicked off. Naomi rose to pour another splash of coffee, the bitter liquid rippling into her cup. She leaned on the counter, staring at the muted street outside her window where early commuters moved in hurried strides.
"Michael"?. She shook her head sharply, trying to refocus on the task at hand. This was just work. That's all. And yet, somewhere deep within her, the memory of his voice settled into a space she wasn't ready to name.By the time the email sent, Naomi's coffee had grown cold, untouched. She sat back, staring at the laptop screen as though it held answers she hadn't asked. Then, closing the lid, she let silence envelop the kitchen once more.Her phone buzzed again, but this time it was a calendar reminder. She exhaled, forcing her mind to steady. Work first. Everything else—Michael's voice, Jeremiah's shadow, her own restless heart—would have to wait.For now, she pushed the mug aside, squared her shoulders, and prepared to step into the day.But the quiet whisper of that call followed her still.