You didn’t taste it.

No one ever does.

The cup was warm,

steam curling like a lazy ghost

toward your face.

The smell—

faint citrus,

maybe mint.

Maybe something older.

She smiled as you drank.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just enough.

It doesn’t kill fast.

That’s not the point.

First, your fingertips forget.

Spoons slip.

Buttons stay unfastened.

Then the dreams start—

wet earth,

teeth in the sink,

voices coming from the drain.

Your bones ache in places

you didn’t know existed.

Your shadow moves slower than you do.

She says it’s just stress.

She says she loves you.

She brings another cup.

Hot.

Fragrant.

Waiting.

You want to say no.

But the words crawl back down your throat,

heavy,

sluggish,

like they know.

You’re not dead yet.

You’re just disappearing.

One sip at a time.

And she never stops smiling.