She left the mug on the counter, still half full, still half warm.

She sighed.

It wasn't about the mug. But it was about what it had come to mean.

Every morning for the past two years she had used it, chipped at the rim, faded print of a city skyline she had never visited. She assured herself that it was practical, just a vessel for coffee. Nothing more, nothing less.

But some mornings she lingered over it, like it was some reminder looming about.

Now, standing in the doorway, she felt the weight of her keys in her hand. She knew. She should have taken the mug with her, shoved it into the box by the door with the rest of her things.

But she didn't, closing the door gently behind her.