It started awkwardly. We sat on her old wicker sofa, the TV playing a serial neither of us was watching. I scrolled through my phone; she folded dried laundry. Then, the power went out. The fan slowed to a halt, and the summer heat crept in.
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At 2 AM, she made me chaya in a small brass tumbler. Not the fancy ginger-tea I get at cafes, but the strong, smoky brew that tastes like cardamom and nostalgia. We shared a single Marie biscuit, breaking it in half. She asked if I had any "problems" in life. I gave her the sanitized version. She saw right through it, as they always do. But she didn’t push. She just held my hand. It started awkwardly