Love is sweet but sacrifice is silent

People started asking for coffee without milk,

yet somehow, they forgot

that milk was the one

that softened its bitterness.

Coffee fell in love with milk

and asked it to mix into its darkness.

Milk loved coffee back,

and neither stayed quite the same

after they found each other.

Somehow, people praised the coffee

but never the milk.

No one saw how milk changed its colour for coffee,

or how coffee changed its taste for milk.

Even when people tried to separate them,

coffee never stopped loving milk.

It kept looking for reasons

to stay beside it.

And then there was sugar.

Nobody praised the sugar

for melting into their love,

for making it sweeter

without asking for anything in return.

But coffee and milk noticed.

They watched sugar slowly disappear

just to make their love a little sweeter.

One day, milk asked,

"Why do you keep melting into us

when nobody even notices you?"

Sugar smiled and replied,

"If melting makes you both sweeter,

if it makes you both happy,

then I will keep melting into your love,

even if nobody ever sees me."

But there was someone

sugar never knew about.

A spoon

that had been in love with sugar

from the very beginning.

It never confessed.

It simply stayed quiet,

helping sugar become a part of

the love story it could never have.

And perhaps,

the spoon was a little like me,

loving someone from a distance,

never asking to be loved back,

finding happiness in the smallest things.

Even a glance,

even a passing moment,

was enough to make it smile.

And when the stirring stopped,

a few grains of sugar remained

clinging to the spoon.

The spoon was happy.

Not because sugar had finally loved it,

not because sugar had chosen to stay,

but because, for a little while,

some part of sugar was still with it.

And the cup,

The cup watched everything,

holding their little love stories

within its quiet walls.

It saw the love that stayed,

the love that melted,

and the love that was never spoken.

Yet it kept every secret to itself.

Because perhaps,

some stories are meant to be held

rather than told.