Aarohi admits the regret no one talks about: not having feelings for the one person who loved her without conditions. Still close, still cared for, yet emotionally untouched, she now lives with regret and the fear that no one will ever show up like that again. Part of the Spill the Tea series, this story explores desire, guilt, and the cost of delayed regret.
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“I didn’t want to catch you off guard,” she said when I opened the door.
She stepped in, set her bag down carefully, and looked around the kitchen like she was orienting herself, even though she had been here before.
“I brought nothing,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I already cooked.”
“It smells nice,” she said. “What did you make?”
Her eyes went to the counter. Pav bhaji. Masala idli. Everything covered, still warm.
“Pav bhaji,” I said. “And masala idli.”
“You always do this,” she said, smiling. “You make sure people are fed.”
I shrugged. “Habit.”
I smiled and went back to the stove. The milk pan was already there, blackened at the bottom from years of tea. The stove caught with a familiar click. I poured water, added tea leaves, let it come to a boil the way it always had.
Aarohi set her bag down and leaned against the counter, scrolling idly on her phone.
“Do you ever drink matcha?” she asked, looking up suddenly.
“Matcha?”
“Yeah,” she said, a little sheepish. “It’s everywhere right now. Online. Everyone’s pretending it fixes their life.”
I shook my head. “Just normal chai here.”
“That’s okay,” she said quickly. “I was just curious.”
She didn’t insist. She never did.
She slipped her phone back into her bag.
We sat down with our plates. The pav bhaji was still steaming, butter melting into the surface. I passed her the onions, the lemon.
“You remembered,” she said.
“You always like extra onion.”
She ate slowly, deliberately, like she wasn’t in a hurry to fill the silence.
“This is really good,” she said. “You didn’t have to make two things.”
“I didn’t know what you’d want.”
She smiled at that. Not warmly. Thoughtfully.
“That’s kind of the problem,” she said, and then stopped herself. “Sorry. Ignore that.”
I didn’t push.
We ate. The tea boiled over slightly. I turned the flame down.
Aarohi wrapped her hands around her cup, warming them.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said after a while. “But you’re… neutral. You don’t take sides.”
I waited.
“There’s someone,” she said. “He’s still in my life.”
She looked down at her tea.
“And he’s… very good.”
She didn’t say anything else.
Not yet.
Aarohi stirred her tea even after the sugar had dissolved. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Like she was buying time.
“He’s still there,” she said finally. “In my life, I mean.”
I nodded once. Nothing more.
“We talk. We meet. We know each other’s schedules.”
A pause.
“He knows when I skip meals.”
She smiled, faint and embarrassed. “He texts me reminders. Like I’m a child.”
She stopped stirring. Looked at the spoon. Put it down carefully, aligned with the saucer.
“His name is Sahil,” she said.
The name didn’t come with drama. It arrived the way facts do when they’ve been rehearsed privately.
“He’s… good,” she continued. “Annoyingly good.”
She laughed then, softly. Not amused. Just acknowledging something true.
“If I’m sick, he shows up with medicines. If I’m tired, he doesn’t ask questions. If I cancel plans, he understands before I explain.”
She glanced at me, as if checking whether she sounded cruel.
“I don’t mean good like impressive,” she said. “I mean good like… steady. Reliable. He would do anything for me.”
The sentence landed between us and stayed there.
“And I feel nothing,” she said.
Not dramatically. Not broken. Just stating it.
“When we sit close,” she went on, quieter now.
“When his shoulder brushes mine. When he reaches for my hand.”
A breath, held too long.
She rubbed her palms together, once, like she was cold.
“You know how you’re supposed to feel something then?”
She pressed her fingers together, as if demonstrating absence.
“My body just… doesn’t move. There’s no flutter. No pull.”
“No want.”
“Nothing wakes up.”
A pause.
“And it’s not that I don’t want to want him,” she added. “I do. I really do.”
In many ways, Sahil stood on the other side of the same emotional imbalance explored in Spill the Tea: Karan and Loyalty Without Reward.
Aarohi sat very still for a long time after that. Like if she moved, something irreversible might happen.
Then she laughed. Once. Sharp. Unprepared.
“The worst part,” she said, “is that I never let him go.”
She looked at me, as if daring me to judge her.
“I didn’t choose him,” she said. “But I didn’t walk away either.”
Her fingers curled into the edge of the table. Not gripping. Just resting there, claiming space.
“He’s still the one I call when something goes wrong,” she said. “When my car makes a sound I don’t recognise. When I’m sick. When I can’t sleep.”
She swallowed.
“And he still comes.”
The sentence felt heavy in the room.
“I know what that makes me,” she said quickly. “Selfish. Convenient. Cruel, even.”
She shook her head, frustrated now.
“But I swear,” she said, voice breaking just slightly, “I never meant to take advantage of him. I just… got used to being held like that.”
She pressed her palm flat against her chest.
“Do you know how rare that is?” she asked. “To be loved without conditions? Without drama? Without fear?”
Her eyes filled, finally. Not spilling. Just shining.
“I keep thinking I should let him go,” she said. “For his sake.”
A pause.
“And then I think… what if this is it?”
She laughed again, this time hollow.
“What if this is the best I’ll ever be loved?” she asked. “What if no one else ever shows up like this?”
Her voice dropped.
“What if I already met the kindest version of love,” she said, “and my heart just didn’t recognise it?”
Silence settled in. Thick. Unforgiving.
“He would have made matcha for me,” she said suddenly.
I looked up.
“He would have Googled it. Bought the powder. Watched videos.”
A small, sad smile.
“Even if it tasted terrible.”
She wiped at her eyes, annoyed with herself.
“And here I am,” she said. “Still drinking chai. Still talking about him. Still keeping him close enough to hurt.”
She leaned back, exhausted.
“I don’t miss him,” she said quietly. “I miss who I could have been if I had loved him back.”
That was when she finally looked away. Her confusion echoed the kind of emotional disconnect explored in Spill the Tea: Sex Without Intimacy, where physical proximity exists without emotional presence.
Outside, the evening settled into itself. Traffic. Voices. Life moving forward without permission.
She looked away then. Toward the window. Toward a life continuing without her input.
“I kept thinking it would come,” she said. “That feeling everyone talks about. That maybe I just needed time.”
She shook her head.
“It never did.”
She picked up her cup again, but didn’t drink.
“And the worst part?” she said. “He never once made me feel like something was missing.”
Her voice softened.
“He never demanded more. Never guilted me. Never said, ‘After all I do for you.’”
She swallowed.
“He just… stayed.” Silence settled. Heavy. Earned.
“I know how this sounds,” she said. “Ungrateful. Broken. Like I’m complaining about being loved.”
She finally looked at me.
“But tell me,” she asked, almost pleading now, “what do you do when someone gives you everything… and you still can’t feel it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“The regret didn’t come immediately,” she said. “At first, I felt relieved. Like I had escaped something I wasn’t meant for.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“Now,” she said, “it won’t go away.”
She exhaled, long and shaky. Like Ira’s quiet exhaustion in another Spill the Tea story, this regret did not arrive loudly but settled slowly, growing heavier with time.
“Because no one before him showed up like that. And no one after him has either.”
She looked down at her hands.
“And sometimes,” she added, barely audible, “I’m terrified that no one ever will.” She just sat there, holding a goodness she could never return.
And somewhere, someone like Sahil was probably still waiting for a call, believing that being good would eventually be enough.
It wasn’t.
And for the first time since she arrived, the tea went untouched.
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Frequently Asked Questions
1. What is this Spill the Tea story about?
This story explores a rarely discussed regret: not having feelings for someone who loved you deeply and showed up consistently. It focuses on emotional absence rather than heartbreak, and the guilt and fear that arrive much later.2. Is the story based on a real experience?
The characters are fictional, but the emotional conflict is very real and widely experienced. Many readers recognize themselves either as the one who was loved deeply or the one who could not feel it back.3. Why does the regret come later in the story?
The regret does not appear immediately because relief often comes first. Over time, as no one else shows up with the same consistency and care, the absence turns into fear and self-questioning.4. What does the story say about love and goodness?
The story does not suggest that love is earned by being good or consistent. It quietly acknowledges that desire and emotional connection do not always align with kindness, fairness, or effort.
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