Tea Gets Cold First

**Tea Gets Cold First**

I made the tea before you arrived.

Not because I was certain you would come, but because certainty had left me a long time ago and habit stayed behind, loyal and quiet.

The kettle whistled the way it always did, sharp and impatient, as if reminding me that time moves whether we are ready or not. I poured the water carefully, watching the steam rise like something trying to escape. Two cups. Same mugs we had always used. One with a small crack along the handle. You used to say it gave the cup character. I kept it anyway.

I set the tray on the table near the window. Outside, the street moved on without me. Cars passed. People laughed. Somewhere, a door slammed. Inside, everything waited.

I checked the clock. Too early to worry. I told myself that. You were never good with time, only with excuses that sounded like reasons. I sat down, then stood up again, adjusting the chairs so they faced each other, close enough to suggest conversation.

The tea steamed patiently. I didn’t touch it.

While I waited, I filled the silence with memories. How you used to stir your cup three times, never more, never less. How you complained when the tea was too strong, even though you asked for it that way. How you once said this room felt safe, like nothing bad could happen here.

The steam softened. I talked to the air as if it might answer back. About work. About a dream I couldn’t remember clearly. About how quiet the evenings had become since you stopped calling.

I listened for footsteps. Every sound made my heart lean forward. Every sound disappointed it.

The tea stopped moving. The surface went flat, dull, resigned. I reached for my cup then, wrapping my hands around it, hoping warmth might still be there. It wasn’t. Tea gets cold first. Always. Long before words do. Long before feelings admit they are changing.

I took a sip. It tasted thin, like something that had waited too long to be useful. I swallowed anyway. Waiting changes the flavor of everything.

The clock moved again. I didn’t.

I wondered when I became someone who prepares for people who no longer show up. Someone who keeps space open for absence. Someone who confuses patience with hope and calls it loyalty.

I thought about sending a message. A simple one. “Are you coming?” But I knew the answer lived in the quiet already. Silence has a way of telling the truth without using words.

The room felt heavier. The second cup sat untouched, its handle turned slightly away from me, as if even it had given up. I imagined you arriving late, apologizing, smiling the way you used to. I imagined forgiving you, because that was something I had always been good at.

But imagination, like tea, cools if you leave it alone too long.

I finished my cup slowly. Not because I enjoyed it, but because it felt wrong to abandon something I had waited for. The warmth was gone, but the ritual mattered. It always had.

I stood up and carried the tray to the sink. I paused there, looking at the second cup. For a moment, I considered leaving it. Proof that I had expected you. Proof that I still cared.

Instead, I poured it out.

The sound was soft, almost polite. Like letting go quietly so no one notices.

I rinsed both cups and placed them upside down on the rack. Two cups. Clean. Empty. Equal.

I sat back down by the window. The streetlights came on. Evening settled in, calm and unbothered by my waiting. I realized something then, simple and sharp: tea gets cold first, but people choose when to stop showing up.

Next time, I will make one cup.

And if it gets cold, at least it will be honest.