Title: “A Cup of Tea and an Empty Chair”

It was almost 11 p.m. when my phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen—one I hadn’t seen in months. My fingers paused. For a second, I just stared at the screen, wondering if I should even answer. But my heart had already decided before my brain could catch up.

— “Hey… what are you doing?”

— “Just having a cup of tea… alone.”

There was a silence on the other end. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just… familiar. That kind of silence that used to exist between two people who once shared everything, and now, nothing.

— “Did you think about me?” she asked.

I let out a quiet laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic. Just… tired.

— “Sometimes,” I said. “Especially when I make tea.”

Because tea was our thing.

We didn’t have a song. We didn’t have a place. We had tea.

Rainy evenings, long phone calls, fights, laughter, heartbreaks—we poured them all into cups of tea. We didn’t need fancy cafés or expensive dates. Just a roadside tea stall or an old flask in the kitchen would do. That was enough for us.

Or at least, I thought it was.

I looked at the cup in my hand—half empty, slightly bitter, just like the memories. The chair opposite me was empty now, but it wasn’t always like that. There was a time when it held the person who made even the silence feel full.

She used to sit there, talking about her dreams, her fears, her weird love for pineapple on pizza. And I used to listen, sipping tea slowly, as if slowing down time would somehow make her stay a little longer.

But people don’t always stay.

And love, no matter how warm, sometimes cools down like forgotten tea.

— “Do you still add sugar to your tea?” she asked.

It was such a small question, but it hit me harder than I expected.

I paused.

— “No. Not anymore,” I said. “I’ve gotten used to the bitterness.”

She went quiet.

I knew what she wanted to say. I knew she didn’t call just to ask about tea. But sometimes, people don’t have the courage to talk about what they really feel. So they talk around it. Ask about sugar instead of feelings. About tea instead of memories.

— “You’re still the same,” she whispered. “Just… a little more alone now.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. Because she was right.

I have friends. I have work. I laugh, I joke, I post happy pictures on Instagram. But at night, when everything quiets down, I still make tea the same way.

Boil the water.

Add the leaves.

Let it simmer.

Wait too long, like always.

Pour it into the same cup.

And sit in front of that same empty chair.

You see, the problem isn’t that she left.

The problem is…

I never stopped making enough tea for two.

Maybe some habits don’t break.

Maybe some people leave, but their presence lingers—like the scent of old perfume in a room that hasn’t been visited in years. Or the echo of laughter in a corridor that’s been silent for too long.

Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if we had talked more. If we had fought less. If we had held on tighter instead of letting go when things got heavy.

But then again, maybe we were meant to be a beautiful “almost.”

Some people come into your life like a warm cup of tea on a cold day. They don’t stay forever. But they leave a warmth in your memory that never truly fades.

She asked, “Do you ever wish things turned out differently?”

I said, “Every time I take the last sip.”

There was nothing more to say after that. We both knew it.

So we said our goodbyes—softly, gently, like putting down a fragile cup you don’t want to break.

The call ended. I stared at the cup again.

Still warm.

Still half full.

Still just for one.

And the chair opposite me?

Still empty.

But tonight… it didn’t feel so lonely.