I dreamed I was a tea ceremony in reverse

I was a bowl of matcha, but the ritual was happening backward—first the sip, then the whisking, then the leaves still on the branch. The host bowed before I existed. When I finally became tea, the room was already empty, and I realized I’d been waiting for someone to notice me since before I was brewed. There’s something about that silence after 'I’m fine'—it’s not emptiness, it’s just full of things you can’t name. Like how good design is invisible, or how grief tastes like cold water.