Chapter One: Coffee vs. Cosmic Demons

Morning light crept through the blinds like it had a secret. My husband was still asleep beside me, breathing like a jetlagged dragon. He had only been home for a day, and already the medication made him puffy, like bread dough left too long on the counter.

I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek—part affection, part “are you alive?” check—and tiptoed to the kitchen.

Coffee. Black. My kind of small rebellion. No sugar, no milk, just bitterness in a cup. If life wanted to throw demons at me, I figured I might as well drink like one.

Speaking of demons—last night I dreamt of one. Not the Hollywood type with horns and smoke machines, but the quieter kind that lurks when you’re brushing your teeth and suddenly remember that time you embarrassed yourself ten years ago. Those demons don’t need special effects. They’ve got memory.

I sat at the table with my coffee, staring at the steam like it might reveal life’s secrets. Of course, it didn’t. Steam is dramatic, but not informative.

What I did notice was this: marriage is a lot quieter than the movies make it seem. Nobody tells you that sometimes “newlywed bliss” looks like you sipping coffee in silence while your husband snores like he’s auditioning for a sound effects reel.

And here’s the knowledge part—soft, subtle, the kind you could miss if you’re not paying attention:
Silence is not the enemy. Sometimes silence is just the space where you learn to hear yourself again.

So I opened my diary, and instead of writing something deep and cosmic, I scribbled:

Note to self: buy earplugs, keep drinking coffee, and remember—demons lose half their power when you laugh at them.