short fiction · 2026-10-30

The Tea Bag Tag

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The string hangs over the mug's rim, the tag folded into a small square of wet cardboard. "Calm" it says, in faded green ink, the m worn thin where a thumb might have pressed. She has drunk this tea every morning for three years and never once read the tag until today, when the steam carries it up to eye level and the word lands like a command she never gave herself. The tea grows cold while she watches the tag darken, the fibers swelling, the word dissolving into pulp. She could fish it out. She could order another box. She could do anything but sit here watching calm unmake itself in hot water, and the morning passes without her.