Not many know that I am a tea person.
Nope, not a person who falls head over heels for teas and knows the list of the tea around the world. I am actually that inexperienced protagonist who has been stuck to one kind of tea throughout her entire lifetime; a bag of black tea brewed with boiling water and mixed with sweetener, both sugar and honey would do well.
Every morning, I gradually sip a cup of morning tea that never fails to pacify me. I take pleasure in every sip, absorbing the warmth and relishing the sweetness as it pours down my throat, unwilling to take in the last drop. I loathe tasting the last drop of my tea, it only leaves the bitterness that makes me long for one more cup and another cup. An infinity loop of crave, desire, thirst. You can never get enough unless you stop yourself.
Several years ago, I ran into a young male who embodied my ideal cup of tea: warm and sweet. It was all satisfying, comforting, and everything in between. Listening to his sleepy voice through the phone was my favorite way to start a day, reading his sugarcoated, sappy sweet words before bed led me to a good night’s sleep. He cheered me up and calmed me down whenever needed, was always there for me through ups and downs. He also listened to all my 24/7 rants without complaining. All I knew, at that moment, he was the one I always wished for.
Nothing lasts forever. Just like my morning tea, this cup of tea also has its end.
He left me with identical sensation of the last drop of my favorite morning tea.
Bitter. And cold.