Invisible

Every morning, there's a cup of coffee on your side of the table. You didn't put it there. It's hot. It's exactly how you like it.

The first time, you noticed. You looked up, you smiled, you said something. By the tenth time, you'd found a word for it.

And normal things have a strange habit. They get fainter. Morning forty. Morning two hundred. The cup is there every single day, and every day you see a little less of it.

It's not only the cup. The full fridge. The clean shirt. The person who always calls back. All still there. All drawn in very thin lines. Nobody decided to stop seeing them. It just happened, one ordinary day at a time.

And somewhere in the same house, someone wonders whether it would make any difference if they stopped. They're not asking for applause. They'd just like to be seen doing it.

So look again. Not at what's new. Not at what's missing. At what's always there.

A cup. A hand that carried it. Four hundred mornings. It never stopped being a gift. You just stopped unwrapping it. And two words are enough to draw it back in. They don't have to be clever. They just have to be said out loud.

Nothing in your life is too small to be noticed. It only has to be noticed by you. And it works both ways: someone may have stopped seeing what you do, too. What has gone faint at your table?