I’d often walk or cycle back from the school I was taking a holiday course in. It was a city where I did not know the language, and would seldom engage into any conversation with anyone. Needless to say, the conversation would be monosyllabic. I’d enjoy the solitude of the unknown city, where no one knew my origin. As if, like Maya Angelou had quoted, I belonged to every place, and nowhere.

The road alongside the beach was my daily commute, and I’d enjoy changing my path every once in a while. Observing renaissance buildings and the way each faded corner narrated a story untold, how the colours of the blues and pinks had worn off.

I saw him for the first time, through a blurry vision, walking straight up to one of the helpers at the school and flashing a broad toothy smile. I was mesmerised seeing him smile at someone who usually goes unnoticed, and smiled at myself.

Soon, while our walks back we became friends and he’d animatedly narrate his travel stories. An avid traveller, he seemed to live each moment to the fullest. While he’d talk to me, I knew without a doubt that I was, in that moment, the centre of his universe.

It was rather gloomy that morning, and I thought it’d not really rain so I didn’t carry an umbrella. I feel he must’ve thought the same, when I saw him hop off the metro station and wave at me from a distance. I stayed closer to school than him, and each day he’d see me off at my place, before he’d head towards the nearest metro station.

As (un)expected, it rained. And it continued to, until our walk back home. We were drenched head to toe, and dripping. I didn’t have a heart to let him travel all the way back home that way, so I invited him home and offered to prepare ginger tea, the way I had back home. It was one of the few things that gave the feeling of home to this new house of mine. He insisted it was alright and he’d make his way home before dusk. I could sense his apprehension towards being alone in my house with me, because of an awkward conversation just a few days prior. I was firm. I almost took him by hand, and asked him to stay.

I quickly changed into warm clothes. Handed a towel for him to dry his soaked hair. My house was rather small, and a balcony overlooking the street we’d walk on every day. While I prepared my comfort recipe of tea, he stood by the window, admiring the pouring rain outside. I could feel his eyes on me, everytime I looked away from him, onto my first love, tea.

As if warmth touched me, every part where he lay his eyes on, onto my cold body. His black metal rimmed glasses reminded me of an artist. Yet his smart dressing style made him look way classier than the casual artist dressing styles. I handed over a tall mug of tea, and buried myself into one of the two sofas. He sat opposite me, in the other sofa chair.

Today, he didn’t quite narrate stories of any previous experiences of how tea tasted in different parts of the world. I was again, the centre of his world. And the tea tasted a little sweeter than usual.