It was late, and the day had been long, and I had a cup of coffee in my hands. I rushed towards the gate; I took a sip. Before I knew, the coffee spilled onto my shirt and my jeans and my shoes. It seeped into my shirt instantly. My skin burned like it had never burned before. You see, I had one of those special cups; the ones you need to secure firmly and with absolute attention. A little looseness, and it spills right out; it did. I started thinking of the person who handed me that cup. I was furious, it hurt, and I blamed them. I considered going back to ask for more but I realised I had walked too far, and it was too late. I looked at my shirt. I looked at the stain. I zipped my hoodie on, quickly, before someone could see, and then I looked around once more to make sure no one noticed. No one did. You see, the stain on my jeans wasn’t big enough. It was dark and the end of the day, and it was all grey anyway so I continued walking, pretending it was all okay. With an empty cup of coffee in my hands serving as some kind of reminder, I walked slower than I would. I was tired, and the day had been long, and as I was about to unlock my door, I looked at my coffee-stained jeans. “I could’ve checked the lid”, I sighed. I unlocked the door, and I stepped into the quiet apartment. Then, I kept the empty cup on the shelf, carefully.