I was his cup of tea. I was the warmth that sheltered him from the cold. I was as sweet as honey and made him feel like home; if home was a person, I was it for him.
He drank tea with his eggs sunny-side up during breakfast. He drank tea while he had his nose stuck in a book. He drank tea while we sat in the comfortable silence that we were able to share.
There is a hidden intimacy in tranquility, but being able to share that bubble with another soul is something else.
“You are the honey to my tea.”
One teaspoon of honey, no milk or cream, and his favourite donut mug; a compelling simpleness of a beautiful mind. Or so I thought.
It was a sunny and bright morning in our last life together. Sunlight dripped through the cracks of the window drapes. There was no donut mug on the table or in his structured hands.
Birds chirped, the wind was whispering through the open window of the kitchen. But the wind was not the only carrier of words.
“I stopped choosing you.”
That was it. The front door closed softly while the donut mug sat empty on the counter. He had left a piece of himself behind.
2 Months Later
He was my cup of tea, I came to realize after that sunny day. He was my home. It was evident that I was not his after he walked out the door.
His home was the four walls that sheltered us from the cold. I was not the warmth that he needed.
Those moments where we fell silent and those moments where I thought it was soulful, the honey to his tea was a taste that ran dry.
I walked into the cafe we favoured during rainy afternoons, going for my favourite tea… Chai, one teaspoon of honey, no milk or cream; it was all too bittersweet.
But there he sat, cup in hand, girl on his side.
He drinks coffee now.