Sitting with qadar and a mug gone cold

I had a scan on Tuesday and walked home on a hot matatu, clutching my bag like it could keep the quiet from spilling. At fajr the next morning I stood in my tiny kitchen and made tea, counting blessings twice because that is what I write about, and every sip felt like an attempt at pretending. My sister's message is left on read, a small glow I cannot meet. I tell myself over and over, this is qadar, this was written, and some nights that holds me. Other nights I cannot lie and say I am okay. If you have carried this same hush, how did you hold both your grief and your faith?