Chai & Matcha Diaries

Reva and I were curled up on my living room sofa, the evening settling around us in that soft, warm hush that made even the smallest sound feel intimate. Her head rested on my shoulder, her hair falling over my arm like a spill of black silk, and I kept threading my fingers through those strands, trying to hold on, but they kept slipping away, defying my touch like they had a mind of their own. She was scrolling through Instagram on her phone, the screen’s glow lighting up her face, when a picture flashed by that made me pause.

It was her and Rahul, both winking at the camera with matching lemon iced teas raised like they were starring in some summer ad campaign. In the caption she’d written: Classic Tea-m.

My eyebrows automatically shot up. “When did you even post this?” I asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Since when were they this comfortable?

“Three days ago. Did you stop using Instagram or what?” She didn’t even look up, her tone casual, like it was the most normal question in the world.

“Ahh… I’ve been too busy to check it,” I muttered.

“Aww, you…” She finally turned, caught my chin between her fingers, and cradled my face with that mock-maternal affection that always disarmed me. She cooed at me like a sulking kid and leaned in, and our mouths met in a soft, familiar smooch that tasted like comfort and trouble at the same time. We kissed, slow and unhurried, but as our lips brushed and lingered, a thought pushed its way up through the haze.

“By the way,” I murmured against her mouth, pulling back just an inch, “you and Rahul are getting pretty close these days, huh?”

The question came out half teasing, half edged with something I didn’t want to name. I knew it was just friendship, knew it logically, but every time those two met, they laughed like they were sharing a lifetime instead of eight months. They always behaved like childhood friends who had finally found each other again, and it never quite felt like a new connection.

“What’s ‘pretty close’ supposed to mean?”  she scoffed lightly. “I’m his relationship advisor! Technically, I saved his relationship with his girlfriend.”

“Oh, so you’re a love guru now?” I teased, layering it with over-the-top charm just to see her eyes roll. “Then tell me, madam, how’s your relationship going? Does he give you tips too?” The joke was there, but underneath it, I needed to know the exact shape of this closeness.

She rolled her eyes, but there was a proud tilt to her chin. “What could he possibly tell me that I don’t already know? I can handle myself. Always.”

“Well, you’re handling me too…” I murmured, fingers sliding under her chin as I tilted her face toward mine. For a second, I forgot about Rahul, about the photo, about every person who wasn’t her.

A moment ago it had been her hair, clinging and slipping away in the same movement. Now it was her lips. It felt like they had captured my whole vision, holding my gaze hostage. Her hair was framing her face like a secret. I slid my hands through it, gathered all of it at the back of her head, and pulled her in, capturing her mouth in a deeper kiss. Her phone slipped from her hand and tumbled off the sofa with a dull thud, but neither of us broke contact.

I shifted, leaning over her until she sank slightly into the cushions. My eyes were shut; the darkness behind my lids made every touch sharper, every exhale louder. Heat pooled around my face, and somewhere in the back of my mind I registered how close we were, how far past the usual line.

I mapped her slowly: first her lips, then the soft shell of her ear, gently holding her lobe between my teeth. Her breath stuttered. I moved to her neck, kissed her slowly, all patience wearing thin, then slid my hand under the shoulder of her top, pulling it aside, pressing my mouth to the exposed skin.

I cupped her breast over the fabric, my fingers closing around her in a firm, possessive squeeze as I came back up and claimed her mouth again, harder this time, letting the force say what my words couldn’t.

My hands stayed on her chest while her tongue pushed into my mouth, the kiss messy, urgent, no longer the playful affection of a few minutes ago. I slid my fingers under her top, searching blindly until I found the clasp of her bra and unhooked it with a flick. The looseness that followed felt like permission.

There it was—soft, tender, warm under my palm. When I touched her more directly, Reva inhaled through her mouth, a sharp intake of air that trembled against my lips. I knew then that she liked my touch there, that I’d crossed into a territory she wanted and feared at the same time.

I left her chest and slid down, my hand trailing over the curve of her waist to her thighs. I eased her legs apart just enough and settled between them on the sofa, bracing my weight so I wouldn’t crush her. I laced our fingers together and pinned her hands gently, my body pressing her deeper into the cushions.

I rocked gently against her.

Once.

Twice.

Three times my body moved against hers, each motion coaxing out a sharper breath, a deeper plea.

Then I let go of her hands, freeing my own so my palm could cup her breast through the thin cloth, my thumb teasing slow circles that made her sing under her breath. Then I reached up, capturing her lower lip between my teeth, tugging her mouth higher until we rose together.

I opened my eyes for a second and looked at her. Really looked. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen, her hair an electric halo around her face. In that moment, I understood: I wasn’t imagining the permission. It was right there, shining back at me.

I lifted her top, slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wanted. I traced my lips from her mouth down to her jaw, to the hollow of her throat, then lower, following the path my hands had taken earlier. I was just about to slip under her top, to finally let my mouth touch the skin my fingers had already memorized, when she whispered, almost like an interruption to her own desire.

“Jace.”

I froze. My hand stilled; my mouth hovered just above her skin. I lifted my head and met her eyes again.

“I think… I think… we should… we should…” Her words stumbled out, tripping over each other, threaded with hesitation.

“We should take a break,” I finished for her. The realization slid in quietly: whatever level I had reached in my head, Reva wasn’t standing there with me. Not yet.

She shifted under me, gently easing herself out from the cage of my arms. She stood from the sofa, her movements small and careful, as if any sudden gesture would shatter something fragile in the air. She adjusted her top, pulled it straight, ran her fingers through her hair to tame it back into place.

I pushed myself up too and without a word, I stepped close and helped her hook her bra again. Her skin was still warm beneath my knuckles, but her shoulders were tense.

She looked uncomfortable, not disgusted, just… not entirely okay. I leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, trying to fold all my apology and restraint into that one small contact. I took her arms in my hands and rubbed them gently, as if warmth alone could soothe the awkwardness. For a heartbeat we just stared at each other, and in that silent look, I tried to tell her everything I couldn’t phrase properly: that she never had to be brave for me, never had to pretend, never had to push herself with me.

Her shoulders loosened, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, fragile smile. It wasn’t a full comeback, but it was enough to say she had heard me.

“I’ll get you some water,” I murmured, needing to give her space more than I needed to stay. I stepped away and walked to the kitchen, leaving her alone in the living room with the ghost of what almost happened.

In the kitchen, I filled a jug and stood there staring at it. I stayed there for five whole minutes, just staring at the water, unsure how to walk back into that room and act normal. If I went too light, she might think I didn’t care. If I went too intense, I might corner her again. What if just seeing my face pulled her right back into that uncomfortable space?

I should have just asked her. I should have stopped sooner. Should have read the signs better instead of chasing my own needs. The self-reproach came in a rush, hot and relentless.

You idiot, Jace. Couldn’t you have had a little more control?

I scolded myself silently, caught in doubt and frustration, when Reva’s voice called out softly, “Jace, come here.” I went back to her with the jug of water.

“Look at this.” She turned her phone toward me, showing a photo on Instagram—her friend and the friend’s boyfriend.

“This is my friend,” Reva explained, her eyes bright. “See, we always sit in the same seat in this café. I even recommended this place to my friend, and luckily, she got the same spot. Both of them loved this café.” Her smile was genuine, almost glowing as she talked. “Look how nice they look in this pic.”

It was her favorite café in Gurgaon, a place we’d been visiting so often that the staff already knew where she’d sit whenever she came in. The café was large, but the spot we claimed was by the window—a perfect blend of cityscape views on one side and the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee on the other. The barista worked right next to our table, so making coffee had become a quiet, almost comforting background ritual.

Yet Reva never ordered coffee. She always chose lemon iced tea, no matter how many times I encouraged her to try something warm. I had to order my own coffee—always an espresso shot—and while I wasn’t picky about where I grabbed my coffee, that place still ranked high on my list. Not for the coffee—but for the way the place transformed in the evening, when the soft pink and orange hues of the sunset filtered through the window, lighting up her face with a warm glow, it was my favorite view.

A gentle breeze flowed from the AC, teasing her hair so lightly that just the tiniest flicker brushed across her forehead. Sometimes, when I watched her in that dusk light, I noticed her eyes were really a warm brown instead of black.

Watching her sip that lemon iced tea was a kind of charm—she’d purse her lips around the straw and make a playful face, teasingly saving every last drop without gulping it down. When the bill came, she’d always argue that it’s her turn to pay, but I stood firm: rules were rules, so when I invite her, I pay. The staff had come to appreciate her quiet grace—how she carefully folded cash into the bill holder and handed it back with her right hand, while her left rested tenderly on her right elbow. Reva’s respect extended to everyone, regardless of their position.

But amid all this warmth, something kept nudging my heart in a different direction. I noticed she’d posted a photo with Rahul, but never with me—not even a story. “You post pictures with everyone else, why not with me?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Her eyes narrowed, searching mine in that mix of surprise and confusion. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just thinking… you never post pictures of us.”

She brushed it off lightly. “What about the ones you posted?”

“But you post with all your other friends,” I pressed. “I barely even use Instagram in general.”

She laughed softly, “You post with everyone from the office. ‘Oh, I met the president today, and this entrepreneur…’” Her quick reply caught me off guard, cutting through my thoughts.

She wasn’t wrong so I found myself compelled to rethink my own expectations. I dropped her home and while I drove back, I realized I wanted something from her that I am not doing myself. If I wasn’t ready to show her off to the world, why did I expect her to?

So I made up my mind: I’d start posting. I scrolled through my photo library that night, looking for the right one to share. Finally, I found it—a picture of her hand pointing toward a breathtaking sunset, just the tip of her finger and a sliver of arm catching the last light. I captioned it, “I wonder what’s more beautiful—the sun or my moon.”

I expected the aftermath—dozens of messages from friends, all wondering who she was. I just replied, “The sun.” I didn’t need to explain whose hand graced the photo.

Soon Rahul replied to the story—”Moon.” I shot back instantly, “It’s my moon.”

“Oh, you mean Reva,” he wrote.

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“I’m just kidding, but it’s not that obvious!” he said. I knew whose finger it was, so I joked back, “But the others wouldn’t get it.” Rahul’s text made me smirk.

Isn’t that the point though? My inner voice whispered.

I flipped my phone over, hiding the screen. It was the first time I had posted a picture of Reva on Instagram—I don’t have to reveal our love all over social media. It is just a small, light gesture.

But what is this light gesture about? My inner voice challenged again.

That night, I told myself it was enough—at least for now.

The next morning, I saw that Reva hadn’t post anything. So I finally realized my post hadn’t exactly said much to the world either. It didn’t show both our faces, didn’t declare anything except quietly, to those who already knew. Who was I fooling with this “light gesture”? i muttered to myself, brushing the thought away.

Later, after finishing all my meetings at the office, I posted a photo—taken at the same café, with both of us smiling at the camera. The caption read, “Espresso and iced tea.”

That was a big step for me. I’m sure my parents had seen it by now. They didn’t like the photo, but Anya messaged me privately—”finally!” I told her everything.

Surprisingly, Reva didn’t say much. She wasn’t tagged, only gave a simple like. Days passed, we talked and slipped back into our routines, but she never brought up the post—not even once.

I kept waiting for her to do something, to say something or share a story of her own—but as I scrolled through her profile, it became clear: she rarely shared her personal life on social media. Nearly every post was with friends, travel memories, or the occasional group shot. There were a few with Rahul, sure, but none with me except for one from a group outing. Her feed never hinted at an ex, and suddenly it made sense—why should she post photos with me after just six months, when I’d barely shown her off either?

And even when i started posting with her,  I’d never dared to use a caption that revealed who we really were to each other. I’d always shielded myself behind easy excuses: “I don’t share personal pictures.” My inner voice was quick to call me out, reminding me that she had her own boundaries too.

“My profile’s a bit professional,” I’d tell myself, only for that inner voice to push back again—hers wasn’t much more personal, just filled with travel memories and snapshots of friends.

Deep down, I always knew my reasons didn’t hold much water. Maybe they were just a defense—a way to avoid admitting that I wasn’t sure of myself, that I wasn’t ready to face whatever came with declaring my love publicly. So, I never really dared. I still don’t fully understand what held me back, which is why I never brought it up again or pressured her.

Yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite put into words, I held onto a quiet hope—almost foolish—that someday, she’d share at least one story about us. Just one.