It was 3:04 a.m.
Again.
The fourth night in a row without sleep.
My room was quiet in the kind of way that felt heavy. Not peaceful—just... still. Like everything had paused to let me feel everything I didn't want to. I was curled up in the same blanket I'd been wrapped in for days. The edges smelled like salt and a little lavender. Or maybe that was just my breath and whatever memories clung to my skin.
My phone buzzed, the soft vibration barely audible under the cotton sheet. I checked, not expecting it to be him. It never was.
It was Yaa.
"So how's life?"
I stared at the screen for a long second, like the answer would come to me if I just waited.
But nothing did. So I typed back.
"Idk. Trade yours with mine."
There was a pause, then—
"Well... won't that be interesting haha"
And it hit me. How easy it is to joke. How hard it is to mean it.
So I told yaa the truth, or something like it.
"Sure. You'll get a not-so-present boyfriend. An unpredictable love. Always guessing if it's love or was it ever really love."
It didn't sound that sad in my head. It didn't feel like self-pity. But reading it back, I realized it was. I didn't deleted it though
"One day it's
He'll cycle 35kms just to see you
Another day
Not even a hi."
That memory slipped into my head like a whisper.
A few days ago—no, maybe a week—he didn't have his car keys. His bike was messed up. But he cycled the whole way just to see me. Not to kiss. Not to talk. Not even to stay. He just stood at the gate, nodded like he'd memorized the sight of me, and left.
Five seconds of presence. That was all.
And now? I couldn't even get a REPLY.
Yaa's message popped up.
"That sure is interesting."
Yaa had no idea what my mind was playing behind those texts.
And then yaa said something so soft I felt it between my ribs.
"I hope things go right with you.
Unlike many, you deserve true happiness."
I stared at that for a minute. Then something cold slipped out of me.
"If I would have deserved, I would have gotten.
My life is sorrow. I've come to terms with it.
I'm living till things go out of hand. Once it's that time... I'll end it all.
I'm alive till death doesn't scream to hug me."
Yaa replied in one second.
Not even a second. It felt like yaa already written it before I even said anything.
"Don't say things like that.
If anything, what you said was wrong.
I have absolute faith that you will have true happiness.
You deserve it. After all."
I should have stopped. But something inside me was unraveling. A thread I couldn't pull back.
"If I do, then where's that?"
Another ping.
"Well, who knows.
Maybe you just have to snatch it."
It didn't make me feel better. Not really. But I appreciated the rhythm in yaa's text.
"I love him too much," I typed.
"I'm confused. I either think about the past or the future with him.
Never the present. It's hurtful."
Yaa didn't take long.
"Then tell me...
Do you even love him?"
I looked at the screen confused.
What does yaa mean by it.
Yaa continued typing...
"The past holds no grudge, and the future is unknown.
The present is the only true reality.
If you cannot love or imagine him in actual reality...
Do you love him?"
I only answered the first part.
Because that was the only part I didn't have to think too hard about.
"I do.
A lot.
So much so that even if he will have a knife on my neck,
I'd still believe he'd kiss the scars left by it."
"But why?" Yaa asked.
"Why love a man who isn't present?"
"Because he has his own issues.
His life isn't perfect." A quick defence.
"No no.
I didn't ask you to defend him."
Yaa replied in an instant.
I sighed out loud, my fingers moving again.
"He stays when he can.
This time, he's just dealing with himself."
"I asked you to defend your love for him.
Tell me now—
Why love him when he is not present?"
Yaa's question was sharp .
That one made me pause.
"Because when he is present,
He loves me like I'm the most precious thing in the world."
"So what?
You feel obligated to love him back?
Tell me.
Think very carefully.
Why love him?
Why do you love him?"
It made me uncomfortable.
Not the question, but how quiet my mind got when it asked it.
"Obligated? No.
I've been loved before by many, I believe.
I declined them all.
Because I didn't feel the same.
This time, I feel it.
When I see him, I want to give him all my love.
I feel I should just be in his arms for eternity if possible."
"What causes this?" Yaa asked.
"Why be with him? In his hands and arms forever?"
I didn't even try answering that one. I just said what I felt.
"Idk the answer. Maybe my heart does.
All I know is...
I love him so much so that I even forget how and why."
Yaa replied like yaa knew this was coming.
"You love him blindly and deeply.
I've asked myself the same question a thousand times.
Why do I love my crush?
It kept me awake for so many nights.
You should ask too.
Because when you find the answer, your love grows stronger."
I didn't type anything for a while.
Just stared at Yaa's words, biting my lip.
"Hmm..."
Yaa wasn't done.
"Start rebelling against yourself.
Against the concepts you think are easy answers.
Like loving him.
It will be... exciting."
That stirred something in me. I sat up, thumb hovered above the keyboard.
"You know when, on a cozy windy day,
you're in a warm blanket?
Curled in.
In your safe space.
Do you question why you're comfortable?
Do you try not to stay comfortable?
Do you try to rebel?
Loving him feels just like that."
"Excellent answer," Yaa replied.
"But you already know the answer in that case.
You're comfortable because the weather and the blanket make the perfect combo—you know the 'why' already.
But that last line...
'Loving him feels just like that.'
That's such an excellent answer.
Your love is comfort. Comfort is your love.
Tell me then:
Is Nigel your love or your comfort?"
"Both," I said. Instantly.
Yaa continued:
"Hmm... well then,
weather changes.
So does the need for the blanket to stay comfortable.
But the idea of loving comfort in bed remains the same.
In other words,
love is constant.
Comfort—the medium of it—changes.
In summer, comfort looks different. In winter, it's something else.
Tell me now.
Nigel—is he your love, or your comfort?"
This time, I had an answer.
One that didn't ache to write.
"Why not both?
I love coffee and it's my comfort too.
Let's say mocha.
I can have it hot in winter and cold in summer.
When I'm happy, he's part of it.
When I'm sad, he stays to hold me.
When I love him deeply, he do too.
So yeah.
He is my love and comfort.
Temperature changes with needs.
He is My Cup of Mocha."
"Good, good," Yaa said.
"So have you realized why you love him yet?
Or is it still 'I don't know'?"
"I guess," I replied.
"Better than 'idk' in my opinion." Yaa text.
I had something to say—something not even meant for yaa.
But I texted it anyway.
"Sometimes mocha can be too hot.
It burns your tongue."
Yaa sent a reply like yaa knew my soul.
And what i wanted.
"But isn't that because the one drinking it was too impatient and made a mistake?
Good things only happen with patience and the right moment."
It clicked.
Maybe I hurt myself. Maybe I drank it too fast.
I rushed love. I expected things when I should've waited.
"I get it. But what to do when you spill the mocha?
Will a wipe of sorry work?
Not always, right?
Sometimes the stain stays.
How to make that change?
I'll be more patient."
All the answers I wanted to love Nigel like before.
"If the stains don't remove...
Then you live with it.
Get comfortable with it. Accept it.
And before you know it,
people stop noticing it."
Yaa had the answer.
Answer that i needed.
"I guess I get it.
Sometimes I need your words more than I know I do."
I thanked Yaa.
"I'll be there to help you as much as I can, whenever you want and need it." Yaa replied
I checked the time. 4:12 a.m.
"Thank you.
I'll try to sleep now."
A simple bye I said .
Yaa left it there. Soft silence.
But I didn't sleep. Of course I didn't.
Instead, I thought.
About everything.
About him.
About how he held me like I was made of glass and starlight.
How his voice, even over the phone, could pull the weight out of my chest.
How his laugh made me forget I ever doubted love.
I love him.
And now... I know why.
He is MY CUP OF MOCHA.
Comforting. Warm. A little bitter. But mine.
At 6 a.m., maybe, I drifted off.
I don't remember what I dreamed of.
Just the last part.
We were on a call. In my dreams.
My voice was dull, barely alive.
He asked,
"Rue? Do you even want to talk to me?"
Then a loud noise outside—maybe wind—woke me up.
8:02 a.m.
I grabbed my phone.
Many notifications.
But none from Nigel.