Every morning he made her tea. No sugar, with a slice of lemon and a pinch of cinnamon-just the way she liked it. Even when they quarreled, even when they didn't talk, the cup was on the table. Like a silent gesture, "I'm here for you. It'll pass."

After the separation, the first morning was particularly deafening. No smell of tea, no noise of the kettle or his footsteps. She stood in the kitchen, staring out the window, and all she wanted was that cup back. Not for his sake. For herself.

And then she made tea. With lemon. With cinnamon. No sugar. Put it on the table, sat across from the empty chair... and smiled.
- You know what? I can do this.

She's done it every day since that morning. Making tea is like a little self-love ritual. Because even if someone leaves, the habit of self-care must remain.

Now she takes the tea with her in a thermos - to new life, to new streets, to new meetings. And if he ever shows up - she won't be the same. She'll be stronger. And with tea in her hands.