The Light Sits in the Empty Seat

The barista asks what you want, and your mouth says the same thing it has said for years: two coffees, black, just like before. You hand over the cash.

You take the cups. You walk to the car.

And then you remember. The passenger seat is empty.

The second cup is for a ghost you are still feeding. Tonight, the house is so quiet you can hear the ice melting in that second cup, dripping down to nothing.

You bought it out of habit, not out of love. But listen — the light does not scold you for the mistake.

It sits with you in the driver's seat, watching the steam rise from both cups. God is greater than your forgetful heart.

The habit is just a echo of a time when you were not alone. The light is still here, in the car, in the silence, in the one cup you will actually drink.

You are not defined by the coffee you bought for someone who isn't there. You are defined by the presence that is.