Eternal Ephemerals

The empty chair

It was the small things she missed the most. The way he used to pull the chair out for her before they ate dinner together, the way he'd tilt his head when he listened, really listened, as if nothing else in the world mattered except her voice. Now, that chair sat empty, tucked in too neatly, its back aligned perfectly with the table's edge. It felt wrong, unnatural—an empty chair when it should have been slightly askew, left in the casual disarray of someone who always got up in a hurry to grab something from the fridge or the salt they always forgot.

Lena ran her fingers along the polished wood, her eyes blurring as she traced the spot where his hand would rest. The house felt too big now, the echoes too sharp. When they bought the place together two years ago, it had felt almost too small, too cozy—a little home they would grow into, bursting with the hope of a future together. She remembered the excitement of unpacking boxes, filling the shelves, deciding where everything would go. It had been a shared dream, their first real step into something permanent.

And then, slowly, almost without her noticing, the permanence began to crack. She had seen it in the way he sighed when she asked about his day, the way his eyes flicked away when she said "I love you" as if he was ashamed of his own silence. She had felt it in the growing distance between them at night, the way their legs stopped touching under the blankets, the cold space between their bodies feeling like a chasm she couldn't cross.

Lena pulled out the chair and sat down, her fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the table. She closed her eyes and could almost hear him laughing, see the crooked smile he'd give her when he said something stupid, just to make her laugh. She missed the way he'd reach for her hand without thinking, how natural it had felt to be connected to him. They had been a team, or so she had thought. She opened her eyes, the empty room around her almost mocking in its silence.

She could still remember the exact moment everything ended. It wasn't an argument or a dramatic confrontation. It was a quiet, almost tender conversation, and that's what hurt the most. They had sat at this very table, the afternoon sun casting shadows on the floor, and he had told her he couldn't stay. There had been tears in his eyes—she had seen them, and she knew he had loved her, in his own way. But he had also looked so tired, so defeated, as if he had fought something inside himself and lost.

"I just... don't feel it anymore," he had said, his voice cracking, and she had nodded, her heart breaking silently in her chest. She hadn't begged, hadn't pleaded—she couldn't force someone to stay. She had simply listened, her hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms to keep from reaching for him, to keep herself from falling apart. He had reached across the table, touching her fingers, and she had let him, knowing it would be the last time.

Now, she stared at the chair across from her, the emptiness of it a reminder of all that was lost. She wanted to fill it again, to erase the loneliness that pressed against her, but she knew that wouldn't happen. He was gone, and the house was hers now—a place that felt too large for one person, its corners filled with shadows of memories that refused to leave.

Lena stood, her hands resting on the back of his chair, and for a moment she thought about pushing it in, tucking it away as if it had never been used. But she couldn't. She left it there, slightly pulled out, a quiet invitation to something that no longer existed.

Maybe, she thought, one day it would stop hurting so much. Maybe, one day, she would come home and not feel the weight of his absence in every room. Maybe the chair would just be a chair, and not a symbol of everything she had lost.

But today was not that day. Today, she let herself feel it—the loss, the heartbreak, the empty space that used to be filled with him. She let herself remember, because pretending she didn't care would be a lie, and she was tired of lying, even to herself.

Lena walked to the window, the light of the setting sun turning everything a golden hue. She took a deep breath, her hand resting on the windowsill, and watched as the world continued outside—people walking, cars passing, life going on. It felt strange that everything could continue as normal when her entire world had changed, but maybe that was the point. The world didn't stop for heartbreak. It didn't pause for loss. It kept turning, and she would have to find a way to turn with it, step by step, day by day.