Make Tea for Me

That was the first thing she said when I entered the kitchen, drenched from the rain, holding a bag of groceries in one hand and my soaked hoodie in the other. I blinked, still catching my breath, and looked at her standing by the stove, arms folded, hair tied messily on top of her head.

“You could at least say hello,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Hello. Now make tea.”

I chuckled and set the bag on the counter. This was Sana. Dramatic, demanding, but deeply kind in ways she rarely let anyone see. We weren’t officially dating—not yet. But something unspoken connected us in every interaction, in every cup of tea I made for her.

We were housemates, sort of. Final-year university students sharing a rented apartment with two others. She had the bigger room, I had the quieter one. She was studying psychology, I was in literature. Total opposites—but somehow, in the noisy kitchen we both loved, our differences became laughter, teasing, and a lot of late-night tea.

That rainy afternoon was no different.

I boiled water, crushed cardamom pods, added tea leaves and milk—her favorite. Strong, sweet, and just a little spiced. I handed her the cup carefully. She took a sip, then sighed deeply.

“You’ll make a great husband one day,” she said casually.

I raised an eyebrow. “Just because I make good tea?”

She smirked. “That’s a big part of it.”

I didn’t respond, but my heart stuttered just a little. She always said things like that—half-joking, half-serious—and I was never sure if I was allowed to believe them.

Over the weeks, “Make tea for me” became our routine. It didn’t matter if she was stressed, happy, annoyed, or excited—it always ended the same way. Me boiling water, her sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, sharing pieces of her day.

I started to look forward to it more than I should have.

One evening, I walked into the kitchen and found her crying. Silently, back against the fridge, knees to her chest. I froze for a second.

“Sana?”

She looked up, eyes red, lips trembling.

“I failed my research proposal,” she whispered.

I sat beside her without saying anything and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I feel so stupid,” she said.

“You’re not,” I replied gently. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.

“Still hurts.”

“Want tea?” I asked.

She nodded slowly.

I stood, boiled the water, added the ingredients, and made it just the way she liked. When I handed her the mug, she took it with both hands like it was a lifeline.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

That was the night I knew.

This wasn’t just friendship. This wasn’t just a kitchen ritual. I was in love with her.

But I didn’t tell her—not yet.

I was scared. Scared that saying the words might break the magic we already had.

One Sunday morning, I woke up early and found her trying to make tea herself.

She had overboiled the milk, burnt the sugar, and looked hopelessly lost.

“I give up,” she muttered.

I took the kettle from her hands. “You had one job.”

She grinned. “It tastes better when you make it.”

That’s when I finally asked.

“Sana… why do you always ask me to make tea?”

She paused. Looked at me with those unreadable eyes.

“Because I like how you make it. Because I like you.”

My breath caught.

She looked away quickly. “You don’t have to say anything—”

“I like you too,” I interrupted.

She blinked.

“Not just the tea?”

“Not just the tea.”

A smile spread across her face. “Took you long enough.”

From that day forward, tea became something else entirely. It was still about the warmth, the comfort—but now, it was laced with love. Every cup I made was a silent promise: I see you. I care. I’m here.

She started making tea for me, too. It was never as good, but I loved it all the same.

Final exams came and went. Graduation approached. We made plans to move into a tiny apartment together. She got a job offer. I started writing a book.

But no matter how busy life got, tea time never changed.

Even now, years later, married and a little more wrinkled, I still hear her voice calling from the other room, half-joking, half-sincere—

“Make tea for me.”

And I always do.

Because that’s how it all started.

And that’s how I’ll keep loving her.


---

Have you ever found love in something small—like sharing tea, cooking a meal, or walking together in silence? What was your little moment that meant everything? Share your story and let us know what makes love real for you.

Note:
This story was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.