'The Colour of Disappointment' by Melissa Fu

We ate French toast. Yours dripping with maple syrup and sarcasm, mine with blueberries and powdered sugar. There was a lump in my throat, bigger than those blueberries, which meant I tasted none of the sweetness of the sugar, the saltiness of the butter, the tart reassurance of the berries. Nothing made it past that lump I was strangling which ended up strangling me.

I remember the place was packed. I remember blinking back tears as I held a steaming mug of coffee to my face. I remember the colour of the coffee. Just the right amount of milk swirled into the black liquid to make just the right ratio of cream to bitterness. Those days were all about being just right. I had steam to cover my tears, a plateful of plenty with which to fill any voids, and the clatter of cutlery drowning out our unspoken conversation.