Another ordinary day.

The alarm on your phone buzzes on the nightstand, the faint grey light of early morning slipping through the curtains. You reach out, silencing it before it wakes anyone else. Beside you, Tom is still breathing slowly and deeply, his arm curled loosely over his chest.

For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the house, the faint hum of the boiler. No footsteps yet. Everybody is still asleep, tangled in duvets and dreams.

You slide out of bed quietly, your bare feet meeting the carpet. The hallway is still dim, smelling faintly of last night’s washing powder. You pass the closed bedroom doors, careful not to wake anyone, and step into the bathroom.

The mirror greets you with a soft, unmade version of yourself, hair a little wild, eyes still heavy with sleep. You close the door.