It’s not about the drink.
Not really.
Not the fizz, not the sweetness,
not the fact that I said sooo good like a joke we used to make
back when you thought I was still funny.

You snarled, just for a second,
and I saw it.
Then the sympathy came,
like a coat handed to someone who didn’t ask for warmth.
And I laughed,
but only because you laughed,
the kind that slides out your nose like
it’s not worthy of anything more.

Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe I caught you mid-thought.
Maybe you were just bored of hearing me talk
about my joy,
like a child with a new toy and
you were too grown up
to play along anymore.

Or maybe
you didn’t even realise
Your expressions were as plain as a clear sky.
But to me
it was a moment that burned itself into my chest and dimmed all the old memories.

The sleepovers.
The bad accents we’d do for hours.
The time we did work in the kitchen with no actual work done,
and pretended we were dying dramatically
on hardwood.

They’re still there,
but quieter now.
Shuffled behind your sighs,
your cold glances,
the way you sometimes seem
embarrassed
that I still talk to the others
and that the life you live is nothing like mine.

Someone might say I’m too sensitive.
It was just a look.
Just a laugh.
Just a drink.

But it’s not about the drink.

It’s about the wall between us
that grew in silence,
in smirks,
And in dogmatic tones

Not the version that rolls their eyes,
not the one that walks away mid-sentence.
I miss the one who leaned in,
who made dumb things magical,
who made me feel like the way I speak
wasn’t a performance
but a duet.

But now I sit and wonder
What came of all this?
What came of all the laughs and memories?
Past me would say friendship
Future me will say nothing
But present me says experience.

Maybe I am the third friend
Maybe I am just the same as all of them
But maybe I want you to see that
So you can leave me without me hurting you.

The drink was an example of the new you
And it has a wider view,

So believe me now.
It is about the drink.