Between Our Cups of Tea

She placed the teacup in front of me, just like she always did — handle turned exactly to the right, the way I liked it.
No sugar.
No milk.
Just like our mornings now. Bland. Quiet. Ritualistic.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice low but audible.

She didn’t answer. She never really did these days.

She took her seat across from me, the chair creaking slightly under her, and lifted her own cup without a glance. The steam rose between us like a ghost — thin, silent, vanishing quickly.

We sipped.

Two strangers in a house we once called home.


---

There was a time when mornings meant laughter.
When she’d lean over the table, teasing me about my uncombed hair.
When I’d kiss her forehead while the kettle boiled.
When we’d talk — really talk — about dreams, books, movies, and silly ideas that only mattered to us.

Now, we sip in silence.


---

“What time are you heading out?” she finally asked, eyes still on her tea.

“Around ten,” I replied. “You?”

“Maybe earlier. I have to stop by the pharmacy.”

I nodded.

Another ordinary exchange. Another moment with nothing in it.


---

It wasn't always like this.
We used to touch each other without thinking — fingers brushing while reaching for the same spoon.
We used to giggle like teenagers, even after five years of marriage.
We used to sit on the floor instead of the couch, just because it felt cozier.
We used to say “I love you” before falling asleep — even when tired, even when angry.

I can't remember the last time we said that.

I can't remember the last time I looked at her and saw her — the girl I fell in love with.

Now, I just see a quiet woman in a bathrobe, pouring tea.

And maybe she sees just a man behind a newspaper — not the boy who once chased her in the rain.


---

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, suddenly.

I looked up. “About?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Say it, I wanted to tell her. Scream it if you have to.
Tell me you’re unhappy. Tell me you miss me. Tell me you want to leave.

Anything.

Just don’t sip tea and pretend this is normal.


---

I remember the night I first met her.
She was at a bookstore, reading the back cover of a poetry collection.
She had no makeup on. Just jeans, a plain blue shirt, and hair tied in a messy bun.
She looked up, caught me staring, and smiled like I was already forgiven.

We spoke for two hours that night.
We didn’t even buy the book.

Now, the same woman won’t speak to me for more than two minutes unless it’s about bills or groceries.


---

I reached across the table and touched her hand.
She didn’t pull away. But she didn’t hold it either.

Just let it sit there — like my touch was something to tolerate, not treasure.

“I miss us,” I said.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

And then quietly replied, “I know.”


---

Silence again.

Not heavy.
Not angry.
Just... empty.


---

She stood, collected her cup, rinsed it in the sink. I watched her movements.
Precise. Mechanical. Distant.

I wanted to say so many things.

Like how I still remember the way she laughed with her eyes.
Like how I still sleep on the edge of the bed because that’s how she likes it.
Like how I don’t want to lose her but don’t know how to keep her.

But I said nothing.

Because we both had gotten used to saying nothing.


---

As she dried her hands on a towel, I asked:

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?”

She didn’t turn around.

After a pause, she said:

> “I think... we’ve been trying not to break. But maybe we already did. Quietly. Without noticing.”




---

I stood up. Walked to the door. Picked up my coat.

“I’m going for a walk,” I said.

She only nodded.

No “be careful.”
No “come back soon.”
Just a nod — like I was a neighbor borrowing sugar, not her husband.


---

Outside, the air was colder than I expected.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, thinking about how two people can share a house, a bed, a life — and still feel miles apart.


---

When I returned an hour later, she was gone.

But on the table, next to my empty teacup, was a note.

> I made you a fresh cup. I don’t know if it changes anything, but… it still matters to me that you drink it warm.

—M




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