I no longer stay in places where I am kept warm only in intervals, like coffee left on a table and returned to when it is convenient. At first, I mistook that kind of attention for something steady. I told myself that even if it cooled, it was still mine to finish.

Over time, I began to notice the difference between coffee that is meant to be savored and coffee that is simply left behind. One is prepared with intention, held with care, and finished while it still carries its warmth. The other is forgotten until it turns bitter and unfamiliar, offered again only when nothing fresher is available.

So I stopped reaching for cups that are only ever handed to me after they have gone cold. I do not mistake their return for care anymore. I leave them where they are, and I learn to prefer my own cup, made in its own time, never waiting to be chosen after everything else has been tasted.