Pour Me A Drink

Photo Credit: Taylor Caesar

“I'm a bit thirsty,” you said, your eyes showing true dehydration as you scrolled on your phone.

I poured some juice into your glass without you noticing, without being asked. I poured because I cared so deeply about you, after all I loved you with all my heart, because somewhere along the way I felt responsible for protecting your happiness, and I didn’t want you to go thirsty. Whenever your cup felt empty, I was there. I took my time pouring your juice, the only person who’d fill it just the way you like. I gave you patience, mastered by the years, and a longing for someone to know what kind of juice I liked. I sobered your soul and reassured you when you doubted yourself and drowned your sorrows in the stickiness of fermented fruit. I listened to what the little girl inside would scream out loud and remembered what you thought everyone would guess your favorite flavor was.  

I never stopped to wonder how much I had poured for you. 

The first few rounds, we gulped it down together. I didn’t need anything back. That's what I said to myself, anyway. Juice already contains mystery ingredients, not a receipt of transactions. There was no score to keep, just love, support, and sipping juice and wanting to care for someone and consider them in every way. You owed me nothing for being there; it felt natural, with a jug in my hand. 

So I kept pouring, and pouring, and pouring. We even tried different flavors of juice and talked about which one we’d buy for the house. I poured until the cup was so full it would spill over the edges if I shook it, while mine slowly emptied. The strangest thing about it all, you never seemed to notice. 

You saw me hold the jug and never noticed how my arms shook as I filled your cup, how the cap got easier and easier to twist off each time, or that I had started buying the sugar-free brand now and again. You only noticed that whenever you reached for me, I was right there. 

It was always me. Every single time, I was right there, ready to pour some more as you looked at me with those dehydrated eyes. 

When you needed someone to talk to, we clinked glasses. When you needed somewhere to stay, my bedsheets became stained by the stalest brine to spill from the jar. I was the only one you could share a cup with. When you were falling apart, I pieced you back up. I became the only person you could turn to, not because I was the only person in your life, but because you knew I wouldn’t say no. I’d pour you all the juice you’d like and make sure you had crushed ice in your glass.  But when I asked you to fill my cup, something always changed. Suddenly, your cup became more important than the food in front of you. You became too tired. Too distracted. Too busy. Sometimes you would give me something, telling me that at least I got something…

A short conversation with kind words, a message meant to check up on me, or a moment that made me feel like I wasn't alone in caring for us. 

A drop. 

Then another. 

And I accepted every one that graced me; I think that's what hurt the most of all. Not that my cup has always been nearly empty, but that I convinced myself you were pouring back into mine.  

I would look at the last sip at the bottom of the cup, white bits floating, and tell myself at least I got something to weigh it down. I would make up reasons the cup never ran out. Maybe you hadn’t realized that you weren’t pouring anything in. Maybe you cared in a different way that I couldn’t see. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe if I kept pouring you juice, you'd eventually realize hoe stale the juice had become.

So I kept pouring; I even named the juice brands that made me feel most full, so you'd understand. Maybe eventually, you’d understand how much I needed you to fill my cup up too. I became quietly thirsty; sometimes I wanted to say something. In moments, I wanted to put my cup in front of you and turn it upside down. Look at how empty it is, how empty I am; look at all the things I've given you, the cup I carried even when my hands were shaking. 

But I never did.

I was afraid to ask for something in return, as if my love would seem selfish and conditional. I was afraid to admit that I was tired; you would think that I’d kept a tally. I was afraid to stop; stopping meant that you would stop coming back for more. 

So I kept the cup behind my back, and I smiled. I told you I was fine, that I was okay and that I understood. Then the day came when I realized I had no juice left to pour. Not because I didn't care anymore. Not because the love disappeared. But because I had given more of myself away than I had left to give. 

That's when it dawned on me: I can’t keep filling someone else’s cup while pretending mine doesn’t matter. Pouring juice between two people can be generous without being one-sided. Caring for someone doesn’t mean abandoning yourself. I deserved to be cared for too. I deserved someone who would notice when my cup starts to get empty. Someone who didn’t wait for me to beg before making a single offering. Someone who doesn’t make me feel guilty for needing the tenderness that I gave so willingly. I never asked you to repay me for anything I had given you.

I just wanted you to notice my empty cup, my shaking arms, and the empty jugs that went into the recycling. Maybe that’s why walking away felt so complicated, because I don’t regret pouring into you. I don’t regret our late-night conversations, the patience, the love, the fights I stayed by your side for; leaving would have been easier. I regret believing that being needed and being loved was the same thing. So no, for the first time in a while, I’m not buying jugs of juice anymore. No more full cups to gulp down without a second thought. 

Not because I hate you, not because I want to make your heart feel like mine, not because I want you to realize what you have officially lost. I'm not pouring for you anymore because my hand is tired, my cup is empty, and I have finally understood I shouldn’t have to beg someone for juice while I’m dying of dehydration. I don’t need someone to match every drop. I don't need perfection or someone who has never made mistakes. I need someone who will notice when my cup is empty and cares enough to fill it to the brim. I've spent too long standing next to you with the jug in my hand, watching your cup begin to overflow while I helped with nothing but a few drops. And maybe the saddest part isn't the drops you gave me, but that I stayed, believing I should be eternally grateful for them.

 I know now, my cup must be full too.