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I plop down in the middle of the back row seats and settle myself in, trying to move some feeling back into my wet and cold toes. The bus is pleasantly warm though, and my stomach is full with a good meal with good friends.

Seated in the left row in front of me is Phil; he glances occassionally at his phone and smiles. To the front and right are Marcus and Calvin, with a fellow commuter wedged between them. Calvin is reading something on his phone, empty bubble tea container wedged between his armpit. Marcus is doing his thing, earbuds plugged in, his drink only half done, as usual.

It's been a while since the four of us have done anything, but I'm glad that we finally have.

I look at my drink, now a pile of ice with the occasional tapioca pearl at the bottom. I wiggle my straw around and after a minute the rest of the pearls are gone. It seemed like just a minute ago that it was filled to the brim, cold to the touch, not yet diluted by the ice. Pure and untouched. Now it sits forlornly between my legs, ice clinking as the bus chugs along.

Back at the store, Calvin asked me what I ordered.

"Mango green tea with half pearls and half coconut jelly."

Marcus commented and said, "You always get that," and I think I can see a slight smile on his face.

I do.

The four of us have changed more than my drink preference has. I thought that because so much has changed and that because I have changed, my drink choice would as well. But every time, every place, every occasion, I order the same thing without fail.

I wonder if I'll ever stop. Does it even mean anything if I do?

It is a good drink.

It was a good drink.