She set the table like
she always did — two
plates, two glasses, the
small candle he bought at
the market last summer.
He sat down across from
her and said, "The soup
is good," and she
nodded, and for a moment
that was enough.
But somewhere between the
second sip and the
silence that followed,
she felt the distance
again. Not between their
chairs — they were close
enough that their knees
almost touched under the
table — but somewhere
deeper, in the space
between what was said and
what was meant.
He looked at her and she
looked at her soup.
"You okay?" he asked,
and she said "Yeah" in
that voice that meant
maybe, or maybe not, or
maybe she didn't know
yet.
He didn't push. He just
reached over and moved
the candle a little
closer to her side. And
she thought:
this is what loneliness looks like when it lives inside a room where someone loves you
. It doesn't scream.
It just sits quietly at
the table, hoping you'll
notice it before the meal
ends.