Some Mornings, I Make Two Cups

By: Angélica Escobar

He makes matcha for me in the morning — or at least, I like to think he does.

In the version of my life that hasn’t happened yet, he’s standing in the kitchen in a wrinkled white T-shirt, pouring hot water into my favorite mug, whisking the powder just right. No clumps. Just smooth, soft green. His own black coffee steams on the counter beside him — bitter, strong, no sugar. He likes it that way. I imagine him humming under his breath, not for me, not for show — just because he’s content. Just because it’s morning and we’re home and the silence doesn’t stretch awkwardly between us like it sometimes does with strangers.

I don’t know what he looks like. I don’t know his name. I’ve probably passed him on the street or stood behind him at the grocery store. Maybe we’ve matched and unmatched already. Maybe he liked a story I posted and I didn’t notice. Maybe he’s just late.

But I miss him.

I miss him on Saturdays when I have no plans and no one to kiss me on the forehead before I leave the house. I miss him when I parallel park well and have no one to brag to. I miss him when my day is falling apart and I just want someone to tell me to come home — not to fix it, not to solve me — just to be there.

Sometimes I think I’ve caught glimpses of him in people who weren’t ready. Men who touched my waist too softly, who kissed the top of my head without thinking, who called me “baby” like it meant something. I stitched their best parts together like some romantic Frankenstein, hoping the real thing might emerge if I was patient. If I was good. If I didn’t ask for too much.

But he never stayed.

So instead, I miss someone who hasn’t arrived. Someone I imagine folding laundry beside me on a Sunday. Someone I imagine running his thumb over mine in the car without looking up from the road. I miss the security I think he’ll bring. The ease. The exhale.

Because I don’t just miss him — I miss who I get to be with him.

The version of me that doesn’t have to be so composed all the time. The one who cries without apology. The one who laughs too loud. The one who’s loved out loud — not cautiously, not almost, not half.

I’m not lonely every day. That’s not what this is. I love my life, mostly. I like my routines. I like eating ice cream in bed and sleeping diagonally. I like that I can leave the house in five minutes flat and no one needs anything from me. I know I’m whole on my own — I just don’t want to be whole alone.

And yes, I know marriage won’t save me. I know it’s not a cure. But I want the boring parts. I want to split Costco packs and take turns cleaning the bathroom. I want someone who doesn’t think “forever” is terrifying — just true.

Some nights I wonder if he misses me too. If he’s out somewhere, laughing with his friends, but thinking of the girl he hasn’t met yet. If he’s tried to force a connection with someone who almost felt like me. If he’s growing up and getting closer — not to perfection, but to readiness.

I miss my future husband.

And if he’s reading this somehow —

I’m still here. I’m still hoping.

I’ll have my matcha hot. He’ll take his coffee black.