-somewhere-
Some sorrow become so familiar that they no longer look like melancholy at all
They begin to resemble habits
A quiet table in the corner of a café;
A cup held for too long;
A conversation avoided;
A smile given at the right time so nobody asks too many questions
There are people who know how to grieve loudly,
and there are others who learn how to make heartbreak look graceful
The second kind usually sits quietly beside untouched coffee
Not because the drink matters that much,
but because it becomes easier to hold a cup than to hold together everything unraveling inside the chest
So the coffee stays between both hands like a secret no one is supposed to read
And somehow, lately, even the cold coffee feels warmer these days
Warmer than certain conversations that slowly lost sincerity
Warmer than affection that changed its shape without explanation
Warmer than the silence left behind after giving too much of the heart to places that never intended to keep it safe
Perhaps that is why the coffee is never finished quickly anymore.
The ice melts first.
Then the foam disappears.
Then the bitterness settles quietly at the bottom, untouched.
Minutes stretch into hours while the cup remains half full, as though time itself is hesitating to move forward
From the outside, it only looks like someone enjoying a slow evening
Someone lost in thought
Someone tired after a long day
No one notices that the longer the coffee stays untouched,
the heavier the heart probably feels
No one notices how sadness often hides itself in ordinary things
In lingering too long before going home
In staring absentmindedly through café windows while pretending to admire the rain
In replaying songs only because they hurt in familiar ways
In letting drinks grow cold because swallowing emotions is already difficult enough
There is a certain loneliness that does not ask to be understood
It only asks for somewhere quiet to exist
And coffee has always been kind to that kind of sadness
It never interrupts
Never asks why the eyes seem distant
Never questions the silence
It simply waits there patiently, growing colder with every passing thought,
while the person holding it tries to survive another evening without letting the ache become visible
Sometimes the saddest people are not the ones crying openly
Sometimes they are the calmest ones in the room -
the ones who mastered the art of looking composed while quietly breaking apart underneath
The ones who keep saying “it’s okay” because explaining would take too much energy
The ones who laugh softly so nobody notices the exhaustion hidden beneath their voice
The ones who sit alone with coffee long enough for the entire café to change around them
And maybe that is the secret.
Maybe the untouched coffee was never just coffee at all..
Maybe it was a way of delaying the moment of going back to an empty feeling
A way of keeping the hands occupied while the heart struggled to stay steady
A small warmth to hold onto when everything else started feeling unbearably cold
So if someday there is a person sitting quietly before a cup long after the warmth has disappeared,
fingers still wrapped gently around it as though it contains something fragile -
it may not mean they enjoy cold coffee
It may simply mean they are trying very hard not to let their longing be seen
xoxo,
yanie
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