Constellations of Grief

I started buying the same coffee every Tuesday at 4:47 PM, not because I loved

the taste, but because that's when she worked her shift. The barista with

paint-stained fingernails who always drew tiny constellations in the foam. I never told her

my name was already written in her art, that I'd been collecting napkins with her drawings for six

months. She had this habit of humming off-key while making drinks, completely unaware

anyone could hear. I memorized every wrong note. My therapist said I was using routine

to avoid processing my brother's death. Maybe she was right. But those Tuesday visits felt like

the only thing tethering me to something real. One rainy evening, I walked in and