I don’t drink coffee to wake up, I wake up to drink coffee.

The floor is too cold.

Why is it always this cold? I’m shuffling toward the kitchen like a zombie in mismatched socks, and I’m pretty sure I just stepped on a piece of oat. My brain feels like a browser with forty tabs open, but all of them are frozen on a spinning loading icon. Something important happened last night, but wait, is it happened in real life or in my dream? I don’t even know who I am until the kettle starts that low, angry hiss.

I reach for the Oatly. It’s sitting there in the fridge, the only thing that looks organized in my life right now. I shake the carton. Is there enough? Please let there be enough. If I have to go outside to Esselunga looking like this—hair like a bird’s nest, wearing a sweatshirt from 2018. Not gonna lie, I will pass away.

The pour is the only thing I do right all day. It’s that specific, creamy swirl into the dark liquid. It’s not a "latte art" moment; it’s a "preventing a total breakdown" moment. I take the first sip. It’s too hot. I burnt my tongue. Again. I do this every single morning. I am a highly evolved human being who cannot master the temperature of a liquid.

I sit at the table, staring at a bag of chips that’s been there since Tuesday. I should move it. I don’t move it. I just hold the mug with both hands and wait for the caffeine to tell my heart to start beating for real. People think rituals are these big, spiritual things, but mine is just this: standing in a dark kitchen, waiting for a plant-based beverage to convince me that being an adult isn't a scam. Okay. The coffee is at the right temperature now. I think I can handle the sun today. Maybe.