He always got coffee, and you got tea. “Opposites attract.” John had once said, smiling. And you believed him. Opposites, you told yourself, balance. The drinks were a silent metaphor of your personalities, small statements of who you were.

John was like coffee, bold, imposing, driven, announcing himself into a room with his presence alone. You were like tea, quiet, patient, introspective. You brewed slower, unraveling yourself to new people only if they had the patience to get to know you, unlike John, whose personality outshone you, always.

It was all a blur, the changes you’ve made, telling yourself you were molding yourself into his life, purely out of love. You’d started drinking coffee, laughing at his bad jokes, ignoring how the bitter taste in your mouth was starting to weigh down on your heart. The moment you noticed you’d drifted so far away, the shore was nowhere in sight.

John didn’t realise that instead of growing into yourself, you had been shrinking away, becoming a mirror of himself, instead of blossoming into the person he’d fallen in love with. He simply thought you’d grown accustomed to the taste of coffee.

Standing at the counter of the café, you found yourself paralysed. There were so many options on the menu, and that made you realise: when was the last time you’d had tea, anyway? Your quiet act of rebellion, the one statement you were brave enough to make.

John had been mindlessly scrolling on his phone when you walked back to the table, his brows furrowing when he saw you holding the mug between your hands. “Tea?” He asked. And suddenly, he realised: you hadn’t just missed the drink, but yourself, too.