Disillusionment tastes like caffeine. 

Which, [i]ac[/i]tually, [i]is[/i] its own flavor, thank you very much. It shines beneath the surface of the drink, bitter, sharp, acrid.

Like, it turns out, attempting personal rituals when--

"It's like, I keep trying to do what normally calms me down, right?" 

She inhales the scent of the coffee, and is bitterly grateful that at least the [i]drink[/i] isn't blue. 

Which is, alas, more than she can say for the rest of the kitchen.

Is it weird to say that she's going to miss the taste of crab? It was their defining meal, their cultural foodstuff and--

She grits her teeth.

"And [i]this[/i] keeps happening. It's like, it's the same drink, right? The same food. The same ceremony surrounding it.

"And yet, no the hell it isn't. I keep--keep, you know, going to reach for something. Reach for where something was, where it ought to be, only to find that some [i]fucker[/i] rearranged the drawers for better symmetry. 

"It's a hearth, but it's not. Not [i]my[/i] hearth."

Carefully, she tips the carafe into a mug--beautiful, fluted, delicate, [i]wrong[/i]--and offers it to Hestia.

"Sugar?"