The best man

Chapter 4

It's Sunday evening, and the rain has finally stopped, leaving the city streets damp and glistening under the soft glow of streetlights. The weekend feels like it has slipped away too quickly, and a sense of restlessness stirs inside me. I decide to treat myself to dinner—something simple, just to get out of the house for a while.

I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of my beige trench coat. It fits snugly over my black turtleneck, paired with my favorite Levi's—a faded blue pair that I've had for years but still love. I grab my small crossbody bag, a simple but elegant piece that I always take with me when I want to keep things light. I then finally slip on my pair of black fall boots and, with one last glance in the mirror, I'm ready to go.

The evening air hits me as I step outside, cool and crisp, a reminder that autumn is fully here.
As I step outside, the cool evening air brushes against my skin. The sidewalks are still slick from the day's rain, reflecting the lights of nearby shops and passing cars. I make my way toward a small restaurant I've been meaning to try, one I've walked by many times but never had the chance to visit. It feels good to do something for myself.

On my way there, I pass a few couples walking hand in hand, their conversations soft and intimate, shared laughter cutting through the quiet evening air. They look so at ease with each other, moving in sync, like they belong together. I don't mean to, but I can't help watching them as they pass, a small pang of something—loneliness, maybe—welling up inside me.

I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets, trying to shake off the feeling. It's fine. I'm fine. I've been learning to enjoy my own company, to find peace in solitude. But tonight, in the stillness of the evening, I can't deny the small ache in my chest, the quiet yearning to hold someone's hand, to feel the warmth of another person next to me.

When I arrive at the restaurant, I'm greeted with the soft hum of voices, the clinking of silverware against plates. The cozy atmosphere is welcoming, with warm lighting and tables spaced just far enough apart to offer a sense of privacy. I request a small table for one, near the window, and the hostess seats me without question.

As I settle into my seat, I glance around and notice that most of the tables are filled with couples. They're leaning in close, sharing appetizers, smiling at each other over glasses of wine. It's the kind of scene that feels like a postcard for romance—something you'd see in a movie.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the menu in front of me. It's fine. I'm here to enjoy my own company. But that pang of loneliness creeps back in, a little sharper now. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be one of those couples, to have someone to share moments like this with, to reach across the table and hold someone's hand, to laugh together about something silly, to feel that kind of connection.

But then, I remind myself—love doesn't just fall off a tree. It's not something that happens because I want it to in this moment. I'm single, and that's okay. I'm learning that being single doesn't mean being incomplete. It doesn't mean I'm missing out on something, even if it feels that way sometimes. I've been taking steps—small steps, but steps nonetheless—toward becoming whole on my own. And maybe that's enough for now.

I place my order, deciding on a comforting pasta dish, and sip my water, watching the world go by through the window. The city outside is still alive, people walking, cars passing, life moving forward. I remind myself that I'm moving forward, too. Slowly, but surely.

Dinner arrives, and I eat in silence, enjoying the flavors, savoring the food. There's no conversation to fill the space, no one to share the moment with, but that's okay. I'm here for me. I deserve this time, this small act of care.

When I finish, I pay the bill and step back outside. The air feels colder now, the evening deepening into night. On the walk home, I see more couples, huddled close under umbrellas, holding hands as they make their way down the same damp streets. A part of me aches for that, for the closeness, the warmth of another person. But another part of me knows that it's okay to wait. That it's okay to be patient. Love isn't something I can force, and it isn't something that completes me—it's something that will come when the time is right.

For now, I'm learning to be enough on my own.

I reach my apartment and step inside, the warmth of home greeting me as I close the door behind me. I hang up my coat and kick off my shoes, feeling a sense of calm settle over me. I might have felt a little lonely tonight, but that's just a part of being human. And it's okay. Because tomorrow is another day, and I'm slowly realizing that I'm not as alone as I sometimes feel.

And that's a start.