The art of seeing love

the empty spaces

Sarah traced her finger along the rim of her coffee cup, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals toward the café ceiling. The morning rush had dwindled, leaving behind the gentle hum of espresso machines and scattered conversations. Three tables away, an elderly couple shared a croissant, their hands clasped together on the wooden tabletop, their matching wedding bands catching the sunlight that streamed through the windows.

Forty-three weeks. That's how long it had been since her last real connection, not counting the string of dating app disasters and well-meaning setups by her coworkers. Sarah pulled out her journal—a habit she'd started after her therapist suggested she document her "journey toward authentic relationships," whatever that meant. The pages were filled with observations of other people's love: the way her neighbor Mark looked at his wife when she gardened, how the barista's eyes lit up when her girlfriend brought her lunch, the soft kisses her best friend Emily shared with her new husband.

Her phone buzzed. Another notification from one of the five dating apps she'd downloaded in a moment of late-night vulnerability. She ignored it, instead watching as a young man at the counter fumbled with his wallet, dropping coins that scattered across the floor. Without thinking, Sarah stood to help him gather them.

"Thanks," he said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I swear, Mercury isn't even in retrograde yet."

Sarah laughed, surprising herself. When was the last time she'd genuinely laughed with a stranger? "I think we can blame the Monday morning chaos instead of the planets."

He smiled, and for a moment, Sarah felt that familiar flutter of possibility in her chest. But before she could say anything else, he was gone, lost in the stream of people heading out into the world, leaving her with nothing but the lingering warmth of a brief connection.

Back at her table, Sarah opened her journal to a fresh page. "The thing about searching for love," she wrote, "is that it feels like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. The harder you grasp, the more it slips away." She paused, pen hovering over the paper. "But maybe that's because I've been looking for it in all the wrong places. Maybe love isn't something you find—maybe it's something that finds you when you're busy building a life worth sharing."

The thought settled over her like a warm blanket. Sarah closed her journal and gathered her things, leaving behind her half-finished coffee and the ghost of possibilities that haunted every empty chair across from her. Outside, the city was waking up properly now, its streets filling with people rushing toward their own stories of connection and loss.