This is the first time I let you in, but you've already made yourself at home. You are bumbling around in my kitchen, as though you have been making me tea for a lifetime.

Thin beams of orange sunlight enter through the window grills. There are too many buildings around to let in ample air and light. I wish you would stand by the window, so I could see how those beams fall on your face. I want to picture you somewhere more open, like a field, where you could be bathed in the full late-afternoon glow.

But then you break the spell by turning the kitchen light on, without a break in your monologue from a conversation whose thread I've lost long ago. You don't even ask me. But I've already told you to make yourself at home. The bright whiteness of the new LED bulb turns everything insipid. With no shadows on your face anymore, no room for imagination, I start to question if you're really as cute as I thought.

"Do you take milk and sugar?" You lift your eyes from the simmering pot. Now that's sweet, I must admit.

But I want it raw.

You want the same too, but I didn't mean just about the tea. It has been a while since I gave in to something with full abandon. I want the rush of young love again, however cliched as it sounds. I want to be caught up in the whirlwind of passion, even though I've lived too long to be that delusional.

But you keep talking and talking, and as I try to tune in once again, I'm reminded that we are not on the same wavelength. We haven't read the same books. Hell, you barely read. But then, you go a bit still as you check the pot again. You lean in and smell, and if you want, you can grab a ladle and taste the tea. The momentary silence makes me imagine a scene of domestic bliss. You are at home. You've been making me tea for a lifetime.

You cradle the tray in your nimble arms, closing the distance between us. Your body is as graceful as water. I don't even register your voice. But then, you claim my coffee mug as your own. You don't even ask.

You keep blabbering and yapping as you go about pulling the curtains and turn all the tube lights on. You don't even ask if I like sitting in the twilight half-dark better. You move about my world as if you own the place.

When I bring the teacup to my lips, it is ice cold.

This is not your home.

Adhora Ahmed doesn't like breathing because love is in the air.