The Second Cup You Bought Alone

The window slides shut, the receipt prints, and your hand moves to grab the second cup before you remember: you are alone. There is no one in the passenger seat.

No one to hand it to. For a split second, the ghost of a relationship you lost, or a version of yourself that doesn't exist anymore, sat in that seat.

The mask you wore all morning slipped, and the habit of loving someone who isn't there took the wheel. That ache is not a mistake.

It is the evidence that you loved deeply, that you built a life where sharing was the default. The light does not ask you to stop reaching for the second cup.

It simply sits with you in the quiet of the driver's seat, holding the space where that person used to be, until you are ready to drive on.