The Second Cup

Every morning, I still make two cups of tea.

One for me. One for her.

It’s a ritual that doesn’t ask for permission. My body just moves—boil the water, drop the bags in, two spoons of sugar in hers, none in mine. I stir both. I wait. I carry them to the table. I set them down, just like always.

And then I drink mine, and hers just sits there.

The first few weeks after she was gone, I told myself I was just forgetting. Muscle memory, nothing more. My brain hadn’t caught up to the absence.

But that was over a year ago. And I still make two cups.

We met over tea. That’s the part that loops in my mind like a scratched record.

It was in a university library. I spilled mine on her notes. She didn’t even get mad. Just smiled like it was a sign from the universe that someone new had entered her story. She said she never drank tea but decided, that day, to give it another try. That was her way—always willing to meet the world halfway.

She never liked coffee. Said it was too serious. Tea, she claimed, was the drink of patient people.

We had different lives, but we met at the corners. She liked to dance barefoot in the kitchen. I liked to watch. She wrote lists for everything. I lost mine five minutes after writing them. She loved breakfast in bed. I preferred silence in the mornings. But we met at 7:30 a.m., at the little round table by the window, over tea.

When she got sick, I stopped sleeping. I started learning how to make herbal blends, bought expensive loose leaf from places I couldn’t pronounce. I looked for the cure in leaves and steep times and steam. Foolish, maybe. But it felt like doing something, and doing something always hurts less than doing nothing.

She said goodbye without ever really saying it. That was her, too—gentle exits. Like turning the page before the chapter ends.

Now, I drink my tea while hers cools beside me.

Some mornings I try to skip the second cup. I stand at the kettle and tell myself, not today. I grab one mug. I fill it. I wait.

But when I sit down, the absence on the table feels heavier than any full cup ever did.

So I go back. I make another.

It’s not about pretending she’s still here.

It’s about remembering that she was.

Today, I poured her tea and caught myself smiling. That’s new. Usually it aches. But this morning, I remembered how she’d always hum while the tea steeped. Off-key, tuneless little songs that made no sense. And I smiled.

Maybe that’s healing. Not forgetting, but remembering differently.

Tomorrow, I’ll probably make two cups again.

Maybe always.

Some habits aren’t meant to be broken. Some cups aren’t meant to be drunk.

Some loves aren’t meant to be unlearned.