The Tea Went Cold Today

It wasn’t raining. It should have been. Days like these demand clouds. But the sun was out. Yellow. Smiling. Rude.

I made tea at 6:47 AM. Didn’t drink it. Not out of forgetfulness. I watched the steam swirl, lose shape, and disappear. Somewhere in that evaporating spiral, I thought I saw my name. It didn’t stay.

The mug still sits on the edge of the windowsill. No cracks. Just cold. Like it’s waiting for someone who promised to return, but never did.

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The chair across from mine creaks at the same time every evening. Maybe the cushion remembers weight. Maybe the screws remember laughter. Maybe ghosts have impeccable timing. Or maybe memories don’t need permission to sit down.

I don’t dust it.

If you dust things too often, they forget. And I can’t have that chair forgetting.

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Someone played a song yesterday from a car passing by. I knew the lyrics. I hadn’t heard it in years, but I knew every note. Isn’t it strange how pain memorizes things you didn’t mean to keep?

I didn’t hum along. I listened like it was news. Like a crime scene report. Like evidence.

Some songs are less music, more confession. Not yours. Mine.

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I walked by the river last Thursday. The water was still. Birds overhead — white streaks in a burnt-orange sky. A child threw stones. I counted each ripple. Watched how long it took the water to go still again.

It takes longer now.

Stillness has stages. There's the kind that looks like peace. And the kind that tastes like silence no one asked for.

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I watched a plant die once. Not suddenly. Not from fire or frost. But slowly, like it forgot how to reach. Each leaf stopped turning toward the light. It had soil. Water. Sun.

It just didn’t want to be green anymore.

I didn’t replace it.

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At dinner last night, I overcooked the Maggie again.

Third time this week. 

There’s no one to complain, so I act surprised every time. “Oh no,” I say. “Not again.”

Then I eat half of it. Not for hunger. Just to prove something to the chair that still won’t speak.

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A neighbor's dog barks all night. I used to bang the wall. Now I just listen. I’ve started assigning meanings to each bark.

One short bark: “I’m here.”

Two: “Where are you?”

Three: “I remember.”

There’s something comforting about it.

A language I don’t understand but trust anyway.

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I pass by the mirror now without pausing. Not because I don’t care how I look.

It’s just — I’m tired of pretending I recognize who’s standing there.

Their eyes blink too slowly. Like they’ve been awake for years.

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There’s a box in the shelf labeled “Keep.”

I haven’t opened it.

But I dream of it often.

In the dreams, it’s heavier than I remember.

Like time has added things.

Regrets maybe. Forgotten birthdays. Sentences that ended too soon.

Someone once told me that boxes only stay closed when you're afraid of the endings you already know.

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I almost called your name out loud today. No one was around. The room was quiet. The timing was perfect. But I didn’t. Because saying it might make it real. And reality?

It’s loud.

Brutal.

Final.

So I whispered it to the cold mug instead.

It didn’t flinch.

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At dusk, the sky turned the color of promises we meant to keep.

That peculiar shade between orange and ache.

It made me want to write you a letter.

Not to send.

Just to write.

Sometimes your hands need to remember what it felt like to reach — even if there’s no one left to hold.

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They say healing is circular. But I’ve walked this loop too many times.

The trees know me now.

The cracks on the pavement nod when I pass.

There’s comfort in being unnoticed.

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Someone asked me when I last laughed so hard I cried.

I said, “Can’t recall.”

But truth is, I remember the last time I cried so hard I laughed.

It’s not the same.

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Midnight used to be a mystery. Now it's a routine.

The ceiling fan has a rhythm.

The fridge hums lullabies.

The silence?

Scripted.

I write things in my head at night.

Lines like:

> “Maybe the stars aren’t watching. Maybe they’re just waiting.”

“Maybe love isn’t lost — just hiding somewhere I forgot to look.”

“Maybe if I sleep facing the wall, dreams won’t escape.”

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This morning, I found an old receipt.

From a day I’d forgotten.

Two coffees. A chocolate tart. A book.

Your name was scribbled on the back.

Not by me.

That day exists somewhere. Whole. Untouched.

But not here.

Not now.

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The tea went cold again today.

6:47 AM.

Steam curled once. Then vanished.

I didn’t touch it.

Again.

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