In the end, it comes down to one sip. The last drip. The moment you hear the faint drained intolerance to the unsaid bits.
Echos unspoken, crawling behind the smiles — fake. You know they know. You know because you can’t unknow the ‘unuttered’ hate.
But you sip. You can’t spit. Because you know good and bad things come in threes. You know it’s inevitable. Variation is the way of the end, the truth of growth, the price and prize of change.
So you sip. Cold, hot, warm, milk, dark, chocolate. You sip. A blip. A spot. A smudge. You sip.
Because only empty cups get to be filled again.
Originally published on our medium publication: Self-ish.