I watched her sip water like it was a silent poem written in Morse code by the subway lights. Not thirsty. Not poetic. Just… profoundly lonely. Her silk wasn’t fashion—it was anatomy. The flowers on that cabinet? Not decor. They’re fragments of her grandmother’s last dance in Giongawa alleyway at 2am. And yes—I cried in the subway because she didn’t smile… she smiled because it hurt too much to let go.

Have you ever cried over a teacup that wasn’t even there?