The kitchen was quiet, too quiet for a Saturday morning. My sister sat across from me, her gaze fixed on the steam curling up from her coffee cup.
I watched her, waiting for something, anything, to break the silence that seemed to fill every inch of the room.
“You okay?” I finally asked, trying to sound casual, though my voice betrayed a hint of concern.
She nodded, her eyes still on the cup.
“Just tired,” she replied softly, almost as if speaking louder would shatter the fragile peace.
I knew better than to press further, but the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between us.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second dragging out longer than the last.
I looked out the window, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky, wishing I could reach out and pull her thoughts into the open.
A sigh escaped her lips, barely more than a whisper.
“It’s just…” she started, then trailed off, the words disappearing into the air.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, trying to meet her eyes.
“It’s just what?” I asked, hoping to coax more from her.
She shook her head, a small, tired smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Nothing,” she said, but I could see the truth lurking beneath the surface, like a shadow hiding from the sun.
We sat there in silence, the world outside moving on without us.
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