January Prompt 1 & 2: Awakening / A Cup of Coffee
- A.K. Lee
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
The kids call it a situationship nowadays. Back in my time, what I called him was Not My Boyfriend, with the implication that he would be in the future. My mutual friends understood that he and I were close to each other in a way that transcended mere friendship or flirtation. He was my person - we talked daily, whether in person, on the phone, or via instant messaging (ah, those were the days). We were not dating because the church we attended disapproved heavily of it.
I used to wonder what might have happened if we had dated then, in spite of the church's disapproval. I used to wonder how he would kiss me. I knew how I wanted to kiss him.
The last time I saw him was before the pandemic lockdowns.
It had been a little gathering at his place, with his lovely wife and his two boys making a ruckus in their room. As we talked, he dug out old letters I’d written him back when we were in university. I was a big letter-writer then, and for his birthdays I had always made special cards by hand.
He had kept them. I had not expected that.
Reminds me of happier times, he said, unfolding the accordion one.
Our friends had all understood why I had gone to such pains. I had been teased very gently for staking my claim. I had blushed but I hadn't stopped putting in the effort.
His wife sat there with a beaming smile on her pretty face. You two really had a strong bond back then.
Yes we did, I answered, not looking at him.
They were still in that church. I'd been gone from it for two decades.
Did she know that he and I used to pray together? We sometimes instant-messaged each other our prayers. He used to cook instant noodles at the shared dorm kitchen and we would have supper with the other kids of the same church. But it would be him and me in the tiny kitchen, and he wore ratty board shorts with a hole in the back of the right thigh.
He had a nickname for me. No one else gave me nicknames. We had held hands in a dark movie theater as we watched Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ because the scenes were upsetting, and he knew I needed an anchor while I cried.
No one made cards like that for me after you left, he said.
I said, Everyone grows out of their arts and crafts stage at some point.
They had invited us to their place because the church was holding a special event. I listened and smiled tightly and told him later that he ought to declutter all the junk from the past.
I deleted his number after that gathering.
At the end of 2025, he sent me a photo of more letters he had unearthed and then asked if we could meet.
He used the nickname he had for me in the message.
I wondered if he really was oblivious to my feelings, and then thought, I would always wonder if I don't meet up with him.
The situation made for a surfeit of nostalgia and unresolved feelings. Beyond the fact that I used to have feelings for him, we were good friends. He was whom I relied on when I was in pain; he was the one who walked me home late at night after a church meeting; he was the one who hugged me close when I was unhappy with my internship.
But he was also the one who did not reach out when I pulled away from the church, the one who didn't think my writing would amount to much, the one who never once acknowledged our situation.
I allowed myself to imagine him telling me he regretted not choosing me before. That he wanted to choose me now. I gave myself a minute to imagine laughing in his face.
Then I scoffed at my imagination and texted him a time and a place.
Hot coffee for him and iced tea for me.
He looks a little tired, but he is otherwise still much like the twenty-something young man I had a crush on.
I've been working at the table since early afternoon, so this is my second iced tea and he foots the bill for it. Our conversation starts easy and I learn that his family left the church.
Good for you, I say.
Back then I didn't understand why some people cut off all contact with their friends in the church, he says. Now I get it.
I would have accepted your calls, I don't say. Instead I say, It would have been painful to keep those ties knowing we no longer have the same beliefs.
He tells me about his new child. Number three, only five months old.
I don't ask for the kid's name. I ask after his wife.
She's doing great. She's enjoying her maternity leave. And we're experienced now, he says with a wry grin, so we know how to navigate these waters.
Accident or on purpose? I ask. It seems too personal once the words leave my mouth, but he just ducks his head and tells me that they had been hoping for it but it took longer than expected.
His two older boys still fight a lot. This new baby is keeping him and his wife up. He desperately needs time for himself, and is surprised that I'm going to the gym. I play up the indignation at his surprise and he laughs.
I keep thinking, that could have been my life. Two children who fight daily over stupid shit, and a newborn baby, and getting used to no longer having my social network because we've just left the friends we made for decades. A husband who didn't think my writing is worth my effort.
His coffee grows cold. I finish my tea and stand.
"I need a Christmas present for my husband," I say. "Come help me choose something for him."
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