"We spend years afraid someone won't love us back and no time at all preparing for what it means when they finally do."

Short Story — Two Cups of Coffee"

Every morning for nine years, he made two cups of coffee. One for him, one for her even after she left for work before he woke up, even on the mornings they'd fought the night before.

Then one day, she didn't come home. Not because she left him she passed suddenly, on an ordinary Tuesday.

The next morning, his hand reached for the second mug out of habit. He caught himself halfway, staring at it.

He still makes two cups. He just drinks them both himself now slowly, one after the other, like finishing a conversation that got interrupted.

Comment below: is habit the deepest form of love, or the hardest thing to let go of?