6:47

I never noticed

until it wasn't there.

Six forty-seven.

That's when I wake now,

not to an alarm,

but to the click

of their coffee maker

through the wall,

so consistent

I'd built my morning

around it

without knowing.

The beep.

Then the hum.

Then the smell

creeping under the doorframe,

dark and bitter,

someone else's caffeine

becoming mine.

I started timing things

to that beep.

Shower.

Breakfast.

The moment I'd check

my phone.

All calibrated

to their need.

Yesterday it didn't happen.

I woke at six forty-five

listening for the click

that didn't come.

The silence was wrong,

was loud,

was like discovering

I'd been counting on

a stranger's routine

to tell me

who I was.

Maybe they slept in.

Maybe they moved.

Maybe I woke at six forty-nine

this morning

to the beep

two minutes late,

and felt relieved

and ashamed

in equal measure,

grateful

to a person

I've never met,

for being

predictable

again.