Tara meets someone through a matrimony broker. They quickly decide marriage isn’t on the table, but spend a night together anyway. What follows isn’t regret or drama, but an unsettling emptiness. Over tea and samosas, she tries to understand why physical closeness left her feeling more alone than before.
Spill the Tea: When closeness leaves you feeling further away
The tea was too sweet. Tara noticed it immediately but didn’t say anything. She sat on the verandah chair, one foot tucked under the other, the plastic creaking every time she shifted. She wore a black cotton top with sleeves pushed to her elbows and denim shorts that left her knees bare to the evening air. She didn’t look uncomfortable. Just slightly unfinished, as if she’d left in a hurry.
Between us, a steel plate held two samosas, already cooling. The chutney had begun to darken at the edges.
She broke a corner of the samosa. The crust flaked onto her plate. She dipped it into the chutney, carefully.
“You know,” she said, “I thought I was getting better at… being alone.”
She smiled like it was a casual thought.
Like it didn’t cost her anything to say.
She broke another piece of the samosa, then paused, eyeing it.
“These are dangerous,” she said. “I told myself I’d only eat half.”
She dipped the piece in chutney anyway. Took a bite. Chewed. Then shrugged.
“Anyway. What’s one more crisis, one more poor life decision?”
Photo by Wade Austin Ellis
It was a small joke, delivered lightly. But she didn’t laugh. Just reached for her tea.
“Last week kind of… confused me.” Her fingers paused on the handle.
“I met someone,” she said then. “Through a broker.”
She said broker like it was an outdated app, not a person. “One of those formal meetings. Tea, biodata, polite smiles.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Not a date-date. Just… one of those meetings where both sides pretend to be serious.”
She picked at the edge of the samosa again. “Within ten minutes, we both knew we weren’t marriage material for each other.” She said it lightly. Almost with relief.
“He was cute,” she admitted. “Not… marriage cute. But cute enough."
Evening traffic hummed below.
"Easy to look at. Easier to stay near.” She tapped her finger against the cup.
“But we kept talking,” she continued. “Because we were already there. And it felt… unforced.”
She stopped there, as if deciding how much to reveal.
“I barely knew him,” she added. “That’s kind of the point, I guess.”
She said it simply. No drama. No confession. Just a fact placed on the table, like the saucer.
“By the time we left, the serious part was already off the table.”
She finally looked at me.
“So whatever happened after… wasn’t about marriage. Or planning. Or testing compatibility.”
She let that sentence settle.
“It was just… something that happened."
"We were careful," she said. "At least physically."
“I thought I’d feel… something. Afterwards.”
She didn’t say what “afterwards” meant.
She didn’t have to.
“I had come to feel less alone. I left feeling more alone.” she said quietly.
And for the first time since she arrived, she pushed the plate of samosas slightly away from herself.
She kept her eyes on the chutney bowl.
“I know how this sounds,” she said. “A broker. A meeting. Two people pretending to assess each other like vegetables in a market.”
A tiny smile. This time real.
“But we ended up talking,” she said. “Not the usual biodata talk. Just… normal things.” Her fingers brushed a crumb off her lip.
“At one point, he showed me something on his phone.”
She demonstrated, holding an invisible screen between her hands.
“Our fingers touched. Just for a second.” It was accidental. Or maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t move her hand away. Later, she would try to remember exactly when the room had shifted.
She stopped there.
Not because the moment was big.
But because it was the first physical detail she had allowed into the story.
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Tara’s story is part of Spill the Tea. A collection of quiet conversations where people share the feelings they don’t usually say out loud. If you’d like to begin at the first cup, Ira’s story explores emotional surveillance and the cost of being constantly watched in love. You can read Ira’s story here.
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“I didn’t move my hand away,” she said.
The traffic below filled the space between her words.
“I went to his place later,” she added. Not looking at me. Not looking at the tea.
“It felt… easy. Like I was trying on a version of myself.”
“I’m not sure how much of me was actually there.”
She reached for the tea. Took a sip. Then set the cup down carefully.
She pushed the plate of samosas away again.
“I felt lonelier sitting next to him than I did going there.”
“And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about that.”
She didn’t reach for the second samosa.
Instead, she picked up her cup again. The tea had cooled enough to drink without blowing on it. She took a sip, then another, as if measuring something invisible with each swallow.
“I don’t regret it,” she said.
She said it quickly, like she needed to get that out of the way before something else could contradict it.
“It wasn’t wrong. Or forced. Or messy.”
She placed the cup down.
“But the next morning,” she said, “I woke up before him.”
She didn’t look at me. She looked at the plant by the railing, its leaves dusted with city air.
“There was a glass of water on the table. A steel bottle, actually.”
She smiled faintly.Briefly.
“He had handed it to me at night. Like he was hosting a guest.”
She paused.
“And I realized… I was.”
She laughed once, quietly.
“That’s when I knew something was off.”
The traffic below swelled and dipped. A scooter honked. A dog barked. Ordinary life continuing, unbothered.
“I sat on the edge of the bed,” she said, “and felt like I had visited a place, not a person.”
She folded her arms loosely, not defensive, just holding herself.
“I left before he woke up.
Not dramatic.
Not rushed.
Just a quiet exit.
She reached for the samosa again. This time she finished it. Every bite. No hesitation.
“I thought being close to someone would feel like less distance,” she said.
“But it felt like I travelled further.” She wrapped both hands around the tea cup. Her thumb traced the rim once, absent-mindedly.
“And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to call that.”
The sky had begun to change colour without either of us noticing. The light had softened, the kind that made the city look briefly kinder than it was. Tara set her empty cup down. A faint ring of tea remained at the bottom, stubborn.
“I keep wondering,” she said, “if this is just how things are now.”
Not bitter.
Not dramatic.
Just tired curiosity.
“People meet. People get close. People leave.”
She shrugged.
“No promises. No damage. No meaning. Just… moments.”
She said the last word softly, like she didn’t trust it.
“I keep wondering if I used him. And I don’t know if that makes me cruel or just… modern.”
"I am scared this isn't a one-time feeling," she said.
" I am scared this is just how I will be."
She stood up then. The plastic chair creaked back into its original shape. She dusted imaginary crumbs from her shorts. Straightened her black top. Small, automatic gestures. Reassembling herself.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said.
Not seeking reassurance. Just closing the conversation.
At the door, she paused.
“You’re not supposed to feel lonely after being close to someone, right?” she asked.
It was the only question she allowed herself.
And she didn’t wait for an answer.
She waved once and walked down the stairs, her footsteps dissolving into the evening noise.
I stayed on the verandah.
The plate was empty.
The chutney bowl stained.
Two tea cups. One ringed. One clean.
The potted plant leaned toward the railing, under-watered, still stubborn, still alive.
I didn’t wash the cups immediately.
Some things need to sit for a while before you know what to do with them.
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Spill the Tea is a storytelling series about the quiet confessions people carry but rarely voice. Over cups of tea and shared snacks, visitors bring stories of modern relationships, loneliness, family, and identity. No advice. No resolutions. Just honest conversations and the emotions that linger after the cup is empty. You can explore more stories in the Spill the Tea series here.
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