How can a coffee machine cause such a reaction?

A grey and silver machine, it’s purpose, to make coffee, espresso, cappuccino, flat white, whatever you crave. So why did I break down in tears the day I was going to throw it away?

A few weeks ago, I decided to replace my coffee machine. There were a few reasons for this: it had stopped making strong coffee, and if I used the larger coffee holder, the machine wouldn’t work, no water would filter through. For almost a year, it had been like that. It worked okay-ish with the smaller coffee holder, but the coffee was weak. The milk frothier took forever to heat up and no longer frothed the milk like it should have.

But the main reason for getting rid of it? This coming December, this coming Christmas, will mark two years since she gave it to me as a gift. Seeing it there every day, every morning, had become a painful reminder of what’s been lost. A daily, morning reminder.

Now that I have a steady income, I decided to replace it.

Yes, it was a wonderful gift when she got it for me, but I won’t buy the same model—that would defeat the purpose. I’d still see her in it, think of her every time. I spent days looking for a machine within my budget and found one. I placed the order, and it was scheduled to arrive the next day.

The following morning, I received an email notification: my new coffee machine would be here by 1 pm. Later on that morning, I got another alert, it was just six stops away. It was time to get rid of the old machine. I walked to the kitchen, unplugged it, and removed the coffee cups that sat on top. The original box had been collecting dust on top of the fridge. I got it down, put it on the table, and opened it up to fit the coffee machine inside, ready for the bin. But then, I stopped. At the bot
tom of the box, I found something unexpected. As I looked closer, I. . . . broke down and started crying.

Only seconds before, I was determined to pack this machine away, shove it in the box, and toss it out. But something inside me wouldn’t let me do that. There, lying at the bottom of the box, was the ribbon she’d used to wrapped the Christmas paper around it, along with the card she’d written. It was just a simple message, not something I’ll write here, as that would only make it another reminder. But suddenly, I was back on that Christmas Day almost 2-years a go. I remembered how much I enjoyed it because she enjoyed it. 

She couldn’t spend Christmas with her family in Poland, so I wanted to make this Christmas special for her. I cooked a lot of food, my family came over, my siblings, my nephews and I tried my best to make it perfect. I believed it was perfect, at least at the time. But in conversations and arguments we had a couple of years later, she said she hadn’t been happy in the relationship. I don’t know if she said this out of anger in the moment or if it was truly how she felt. I feel confused and saddened by her words, and they’ve left a massive question mark in my mind.

We’re not talking anymore, and even though she’s said she wasn’t happy, I’m left wondering if she ever truly was. Wasn’t I good enough for her? Maybe I wasn’t. I just don’t know anymore? 

At first, I wanted to get rid of the machine because it hurt too much to see it. But then I just couldn’t. After calming down, I put the coffee machine back in the box, but I set it aside. I couldn’t throw it away. I valued what we had, and it didn’t deserve to be discarded like it was nothing. This coffee machine wasn’t just a coffee machine. It held memories, emotions, and feelings, it was more than just a dispenser of coffee, it was also a Time Machine.

One of my fondest memories of using this machine is from when I would get up early to get ready for work, while she was still asleep. I'd make my way to the kitchen, prepare two cappuccinos, bring them back up to the bedroom, and gently wake her. Sometimes, I'd wake her with a kiss on the cheek, or her lips. Maybe a light touch, or simply by softly calling her name. She’d wake up, still half-asleep. I’d tell her, "I’ve made you coffee," and she’d thank me, only to drift back to sleep right after.

I would drink my coffee, while sitting at the edge of the bed, looking at her. Then, jump in the shower, and get ready for work. Just before heading out, I'd say goodbye to her, noticing her coffee still untouched beside her. She’d then say, "Oh, you made me coffee! Thank you. When did you do this?" I’d laugh and reply, "I brought it up half an hour ago sweetie, don’t you remember?" 

This happened so often. She would never remember me bringing her coffee and would always thank me again, even when it had gone cold. We used to laugh about that. I miss those moments. That's one of the reasons why I get confused when she said, she didn't enjoy the relationship.

My coffee machine arrived, and honestly, it makes great coffee. Strong, weak—whatever I want, with perfectly frothed milk. But this it just a coffee machine. Nothing more, nothing less. 

It's funny, the things we assign value to. A coffee machine purchased has the power to make me break down, to make me reevaluate life, while people I’ve worked with for longer than I had that coffee machine won’t even get a second thought.

Maybe it’s silly, wanting to get rid of a coffee machine just because it reminds me of her. But there are so many things she’s given me, and so many places we visited, that constantly reminds me of her. She lived in this house for a while, and I feel echoes of her in every room. Even on my way to work, there’s a massive sign with her name on it, right on the only route I can take.

Libraries, bookshops, vintage stores, places she loves, are all around me. My favourite restaurant is just around the corner from where I live, a spot we used to visit all the time. It’s not like I can get rid of all of these things. . . For me to do that, I would have to leave London all together, but there are still bookshops and libraries vintage stores all over. 

Maybe I’m crazy; sometimes, I think I am. I lost someone I truly loved, someone I believed in and saw a future with. When we met in person, I could still see the person I knew, the one I fell for. But most of the time, when we talk on the phone, she feels like someone else. There’s a profile picture she uses now, and when I look at it, I hardly recognise her; she just seems so different, so distant, as if the caring part of her has just been drained away.

The other day, I was scrolling through my phone and accidentally found a video of her opening a gift from her best friend in Japan. I couldn’t help but smile—it showed that beautiful, caring, creative side of her, that loving side I remember.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t feel so deeply, didn’t have these emotions. I wish I could be like her now, seemingly not thinking or caring about me at all. At least, that’s how it feels these past few months. As much as I’d love to hear from her, I don’t think it’s going to happen. Yet I keep seeing reminders of her everywhere.

Yesterday, I was watching a documentary about Christopher Reeve. He’s one of my favourite actors, and the only Superman for me. He’s also been in a couple of other films I love, like Somewhere in Time and Deathtrap. I was lying in bed, watching, not even thinking of her, when I laughed! Not that happy kind of laughter, but the sad kind. It turns out, Christopher Reeve starred in Anna Karenina, her favourite book.

It seems like, even if I try my hardest not to think of her, something always brings her back to my mind. It’s like life is either telling me we should be together or playing some cruel joke.

I don't want to be sitting on my bed late at night writing stuff like this, I wish I could be enjoying myself. But the truth is I'm not in a good place, I'm hurting and for some weird reason, doing this, writing how I feel, helps me deal with the pain and the lost.