The Sip Before I Said It

The Sip Before I Said It

The city honked and howled beneath us, but on the foot-over bridge, it was just Diya and me — quiet, almost untouched. The traffic looked like a movie scene running 10x in slow motion. From the bridge, under the dark night sky, the lonely moon shone brightly upon the little stars on the roads. Somehow everything felt different that day, more beautiful than usual.

We got down the bridge and walked towards Third Wave Coffee. The place was bustling with people as always. The outdoor ambience was cool with trees and fountains. We were busy chatting about work and only paid attention to the obstacles on our way to Third Wave Coffee.

I opened the door for her, and a strong gust of air from the air curtain hit me. We went inside, and luckily there were only a few people. The place was calm, with the scent of coffee lingering in the air.

She looked simple and unbothered — in a light shirt top, black track and those little jhumkas she always wore like a signature. Her straight hair fell effortlessly on either side of her face, like it had learned long ago how to stay calm no matter the noise around it, just like her.

We went to the menu and stared at the numerous coffee options blankly, unsure of what to order. The irony was that coffee wasn’t really her thing. I had persuaded her to come here. The menu had items that sounded like spells from Harry Potter — Affogato? No thanks, I prefer to remember my drinks. We finally settled on hot chocolate.

After going through the painful process of installing their app to get a discount, I finally ordered two hot chocolates — which took almost six minutes. A bummer — I had kept her waiting. If self-guilt tripping were a sport, I would have won a gold by now.

We then settled at a table for two, facing each other. We started talking about random things — how people also visit these types of cafes to work, how there’s a socket near every table and free Wi-Fi for them.

The hot chocolate arrived quietly, like it knew not to interrupt. A faint curl of steam rose from our cups, catching the light for just a second — like the drink was exhaling. A soft layer of foam rested on top — and right there, in the center, a heart. Poured by hand, held by silence. I had a moment of hesitation — the heart was something delicate that I didn’t want to ruin. There was something sacred about that perfect shape — like a small truth floating on the surface, waiting.

Then I talked, she talked, we talked — about people, relationships, and love. Then she spoke about what she expects from her partner. I was keenly listening. She took multiple pauses, sipping her hot chocolate in between.

I waited for her to finish. She was still talking — about how relationships should feel like safety, not suspense. How loyalty wasn’t a grand gesture, but daily proof. And I just sat there, nodding, heart sprinting like it had somewhere else to be.

When she finally finished, I spoke — before I lost my nerve. I could already hear my heartbeat.

“I don’t know how many of those boxes I check,” I said quietly. “But I’d like to check as many as I can. For you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Not dramatically. Just enough to let the silence stretch between us, waiting to be broken.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. And that scared me more than any "no" would have.

So I added — a little too fast, a little too nervous — "I mean… sometimes words don’t work the way you want them to. Sometimes they fall short. Or clump up and trip. But this is me trying to say what I actually feel."

She didn’t answer right away.

But she smiled. No — she blushed. Or maybe I imagined it. The light was soft, the hot chocolate warm, and my heart too loud to trust my own senses. I wasn’t expecting an answer from her. It was good enough to get it out of my mind — something I had been thinking about for so long.

And then my phone rang, breaking the silence. It was my sister.

“You really are the kind of guy who gets called by his sister during a major life moment.”

“And still picks up,” I added.

She smiled.

“Add that to the boxes,” she replied.

We chatted a little more, and then she asked if we could leave, glancing at the time. I nodded, and we both got up.

“So, when’s our next hot chocolate?” I wanted to ask her, but she was already out, holding the door for me.

I took one last glance at the cup — the heart-shaped froth still there, like a quiet promise, not yet stirred.