What I Would Do If Time Wasn’t Chasing Me

A fictional short story about coffee stains, closet wars and a Monday morning that didn’t go as planned.

I sigh as I enter the room. I look around the kitchen, and all I have to say is: it’s too early, too grey, too cold, and too Monday.

The air smells like the toast I just burned, and something else is in the air. Maybe those leftover dreams I’ve given up on. I’m barely awake, still floating somewhere between sleep and my to-do list. Steam curls up in small clouds from my mug filled to the brim with coffee, which is much needed this morning. I grip the cup with both hands, anchoring myself in the warmth, the weight, closing my eyes for just a moment.

And then it happens.

A slip. My fingers twitch, a hesitation, a crack in my quiet grip on control. I hear the splash before I feel it.

Now there aren’t just coffee clouds in the kitchen, but also on my shirt. My freshly ironed white shirt. My clean, prepared shirt. The one I picked out last night. After roaming the halls for twenty minutes, trying to decide what would make me look more put together.

I freeze. Not in panic, but in anger. In that precise, slow-burning rage that doesn’t explode but tightens. I stare at the ugly stain like it insulted me on purpose. My throat dries up. My pulse knocks harder against my ribs. Then I release an angry sigh and close my eyes for a moment.

My shoulders clench. My jaw locks. I can feel the weight crawl down my spine like wet cement. The stain isn’t just a stain. It’s a message. Proof that I’m already behind, already failing at something I haven’t even begun. Like time slapped me across the face and whispered: everyone else is already miles ahead of you.

“Stupid time, always on my ass,” I mumble as I march into the bedroom, fling the closet doors open, like a soldier catching a spy infiltrating the base. I scan the shelves. One shirt is too tight. The next feels wrong. And what the hell is this one?

“Arh!”

I change again.
And again.
Clock check.
I’m late.
Of course.

I pause for a moment. I can feel the tear gates trembling, a silent pressure building behind my eyes like water pressing against a cracking dam. At the same time, something hot and violent rises in me, like a storm looking for walls to shatter. I know what this is. I’ve done it again. Pushed myself too far, too fast, on too little. And now my body is sending a message the only way it knows how… by setting fire to the inside of me. By forcing me to stop, to break, to burn.

I slowly close the closet doors and walk back into the kitchen. I look at the room, as if I’m only now seeing it for the first time today. I look at the folded laundry my boyfriend took care of last night, and the little note he wrote for me because he knew I was stressed. I didn’t notice it before. I look at the mess I’ve created in so little time this morning, you’d think a toddler on a sugar rush had raged the kitchen, but no. It’s just me.

I stand still in the middle of the room, breathing. This is the first time in months I notice how my breath feels in my body. The way my stomach rises and takes my stained shirt with it. How my shoulders fall down as I exhale. The silence in the room is loud. It hums behind the walls like a hidden engine. My clothes feel wrong. My skin feels borrowed. Everything in this apartment stares back at me, as if it knows. My freshly re-potted chili plants even lean slightly away from the tornado I’ve created.

I glance at the stain again. The shape has started to blur. It’s no longer just a stain. I see colors. Faint hints of red and rusty orange. It looks like a cloud. No, maybe a map?

Something loosens in my chest. A sigh escapes. I rest my hands on the kitchen counter and let my head drop beside my shoulders. The chili sprouts turn their heads, curious and quiet. Analyzing my movement, my silence, my calm.

My reflection stares back from the shiny plate above the stove. Tired eyes, messy hair, and a small teardrop escaping my eye. I don’t look like someone who’s late. I look like someone who’s been running for far too long. I blink. And for only a second, I see myself differently. Like the little girl who once drew clocks in the margins of notebooks and believed time was a thing you could bend, if you dreamed hard enough. That little girl didn’t care about ironed shirts. She believed clouds could carry secrets. She also believed that silence was where magic began. I feel a soft smile spread on my lips.

I make my way to the bathroom where my boyfriend’s t-shirt from yesterday lies. I touch it softly and hug it tight to my chest. The smell of him makes my heart light up. I pull his loose, soft t-shirt over my head. This one doesn’t demand anything from me. The stained shirt lies crumpled on the floor like a flag surrendered mid-battle. I don’t pick it up.

I walk back to the kitchen. The air has shifted. I inhale and sunlight graces my face. I pour another cup of coffee, slower this time. I carry it toward the table.

And then it happens.

A slip. Just enough.

The splash hits my t-shirt. But this time, I don’t freeze. I don’t curse. I just look down, smile, and shake my head. What are the chances? I look down, and suddenly I notice the coffee stain has given me yet another piece of art. This time it’s not a map, it’s a brown coffee tree. A strange, beautiful shape blooming in the fabric. I study the artwork more closely, and inside the tree, I see a clock.

I place the mug down carefully and let my eyes wander from the shirt to the kitchen. It looks different. I notice a clock on the wall, but the strangest thing happens. It’s melting.

Numbers are sliding down the walls.

I reach for my sketchbook before the image fades.

Time isn’t running out, you’re just in a hurry.

Artwork by MARIA BÆK ART | I pour my heart into my art, so please don’t steal it. If you’d like to use it, ask me first.