The clock is louder than anything else in the room.

7:43 becomes a number with weight. Every minute that passes is one less minute of margin, and there is already not enough.

You move toward the table before deciding to.

Stopping to think doesn’t feel like an option right now.

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for the sock on the floor.

“We don’t have time. Let’s go.”

You hand it to them. Your hands are already moving to the next thing.

The cereal bowl goes to the sink. The backpack is checked and zipped.

Your child moves, but slower than the pace you’re setting. You move around them, filling in the gaps.

The kitchen contracts. Surfaces get cleared by touch, not by choice.

You’re thinking two steps ahead of where you are. The door, the walk to the stop, whether the homework folder made it in.

Your child finishes dressing while you talk through the logistics of the day out loud — not quite to them, not quite to yourself.

You make it out the door at 8:01.

The morning is handled.

Somewhere between the sock and the backpack, you lost track of whether you said goodbye.