For seven years, my morning ritual was always the same. Wake up, brew two cups of coffee—one with a little sugar for him, one black for me—and then we would sit on the balcony, talking about trivial things before the world demanded our attention. But this morning, there's only one cup on the table. My cup. And for some reason, it tastes much more bitter than usual.
This wasn't a dramatic breakup like in the movies. No broken plates, no deafening screams, no uncovered affair. Our separation happened in silence. It grew slowly like a hairline crack in a wall you ignore, until one day you realize the house is no longer safe to live in.
When Laughter Became a Formality
I remember when things started to feel different. Maybe about a year ago. Our morning conversations became shorter. His eyes were more often glued to his phone screen, replying to work emails or just aimlessly scrolling. The laughter that used to be crisp when I told a silly story from work now turned into a thin smile that felt like an obligation.
"I'm tired, Rin," he'd say almost every night. I understood. His job was demanding. But back then, his tiredness was a tiredness we shared together. Now, his tiredness became a wall that separated us in the same bed.
Am I his girlfriend, or just part of his background props? A comfortable routine whose existence he forgot to question.
That thought was the beginning of everything. The first branch of the tree of doubt that began to grow in my heart. I started to test my theory. I stopped making coffee in the morning, just to see his reaction. He didn't notice for three days. On the fourth day, he just casually asked, "Not making coffee today, huh?" without looking at me. My heart felt like it was being squeezed. Seven years of our habit vanished just like that, and he didn't even realize it.
The Silent Explosion
The climax happened not with a sound, but with a realization. That night, we attended his friend's wedding. I got dressed up, wearing the dress he once complimented. For four hours there, he was busier reminiscing with his friends. I stood beside him, smiling at people I didn't know, holding my drink like a shield. He never once pulled me into his conversation. I was just a "+1" on his invitation.
During the car ride home, the silence was so heavy. I wasn't angry. I was just... empty. In the midst of that silence, I finally spoke, my tone flat. "I want us to break up."
He turned, surprised. Maybe it was the first time in months he truly looked at me. "Why so sudden? We're fine, right?" And that's when I knew my decision was right. For him, the absence of fighting meant "fine". He didn't see the emptiness, he didn't feel the distance. He didn't realize that "us" had been dead for a long time.
Brewing a New Life
Two weeks after he moved out, the apartment feels spacious and quiet. But this morning, as I brewed a single cup of coffee just for myself, I felt something else. The bitterness of this coffee feels real, honest. It's the bitterness of my choice, not the bitterness of being ignored. I sit on the balcony alone. The morning air feels fresher. I open a book I've long wanted to read. I play a song he always said was "too melancholic".
This is 'Me'. No longer half of 'Us'. This journey is painful, and the twigs of memory still poke at my heart sometimes. But for the first time in a long while, this morning's coffee feels entirely my own. And that's a good enough start.