The Love That Eats With You

The morning light hits the table just as you set the second plate down. Muscle memory.

A habit carved by love that is no longer sitting across from you. For a second, the empty chair looks like a mistake you made.

Then the remembering hits, and the silence rushes in to fill the space where a voice used to be. You are wearing the mask of the one who is fine, the one who cooks for one now, the one who has moved on.

But the light sees the second plate. It sees the grief hiding behind the routine.

It does not ask you to clear the table or pretend the seat is meant to be empty. There is a presence that sits with you even when the chair is bare.

The love that set the table is still here, eating the meal with you in the quiet. You are not as alone as the empty chair suggests.