I have a strange habit - making coffee in the evening. I know, many people find it illogical: why drink something invigorating before bed? But the point is not at all about cheerfulness.

It's almost like a small ceremony. Especially when the day was strange - it seems like nothing bad happened, but inside there is a feeling as if someone quietly scattered thoughts on the floor, and I keep trying to collect them.

I turn on the stove, take out my Turk, pour coffee to a heap. It smells slightly bitter, as if it knows that I need time for myself. While it boils, I stand silently, doing nothing, in no hurry. Just looking out the window or at the wall — sometimes that’s all it takes to start releasing tension.

When the coffee is ready, I pour it into my favorite cup — white, with a crack on the side. I sit on the kitchen windowsill, wrap myself in a blanket and drink slowly. Not for the taste — for the moment. To feel that I’m back in place, back inside myself.

This is my silent therapy. Without words. Without other people’s advice. Just me, the aroma, the warmth in my palms and the evening that has finally become mine.