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I am a copywriter and digital marketer. @ Adekunle Ajasin University
Lagos, Nigeria
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The Mug
<p>Blue ceramic, chipped at the rim, with the words “World’s Okayest Husband” printed in faded white. It had been a joke gift for their fifth anniversary, and he drank from it every morning as if it were a crown.</p><p><br></p><p>Nina hadn't touched it in seven months.</p><p><br></p><p>Not since the accident.</p><p><br></p><p>The kitchen still looked the same. Two chairs at the table. His jacket still hung on the hook by the door. His shoes lined up perfectly under the bench — he was always tidy like that.</p><p><br></p><p>People kept telling her to “start moving on,” like grief had a switch, like love ended just because the body did.</p><p><br></p><p>But what they didn’t understand was that he was everywhere.</p><p><br></p><p>In the half-read book on the nightstand.</p><p>In the Spotify playlist he made for cleaning days.</p><p>In the dent on his side of the bed.</p><p><br></p><p>She tried to pack his things once. Got as far as folding two shirts before she sat on the floor and cried into them.</p><p><br></p><p>Tonight, the wind was howling. The kind of night he’d call “hot chocolate weather.” She opened the cupboard without thinking, reaching for a mug—any mug.</p><p><br></p><p>But her fingers landed on </p><p><br></p><p>She held it close to her chest, the cool ceramic pressing into her skin like memory.</p><p><br></p><p>She made the hot chocolate. Sat at the table. Took the first sip.</p><p><br></p><p>And cried.</p><p><br></p><p>Not the kind of cry that shatters, but the kind that aches slowly through the ribs. Like her body had finally exhaled the part of him it had been holding.</p><p><br></p><p>She whispered into the dark, not sure who she was talking to.</p><p><br></p><p>“I'm still yours.”</p><p><br></p><p>And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a lie.</p><p><br></p>
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