“Dinner was quiet tonight. I tried that soup you liked, but it’s never quite the same. You would’ve told me it needed more salt.”
Below it, in slightly different handwriting—smaller, softer—was a reply.
“You always forget the salt, but I never minded.”
I froze.
Turned the page.
Another entry. Then another. And another.
Each one a conversation.
What he said.
What he imagined she would say.
Arguments about nothing. Jokes that trailed into silence. Memories revisited over and over, like worn paths he couldn’t stop walking. Apologies. Gratitude. Loneliness, laid bare between the lines.
“You would’ve laughed at this.”
“I still do.”
“I miss you more on the quiet days.”
“I know. I’m here anyway.”
Page after page.
Years passing in ink.
The handwriting never rushed. Never faltered. It was steady. Patient. Like he believed—no, like he needed to believe—that if he wrote it all down, she wouldn’t really be gone.
That she was just… sitting across from him.
I don’t know how long I stood there reading. Long enough that the room began to feel less empty. Long enough that I almost forgot I was alone.
The last entry was near the back.
The ink looked fresher.
“You were quiet tonight.”
A pause.
Then, beneath it:
“That’s okay. So was I.”
My throat tightened.
I slowly closed the notebook and placed it back beside the second plate.
Everything suddenly felt heavier.
The untouched glass.
The folded napkin.
The chair.
I stared at it for a long moment.
It was pulled out just enough to suggest someone had been sitting there… or had just gotten up.
And for a brief, irrational second, I felt it—that strange, impossible certainty that if I turned away too quickly, I might miss her stepping back into the room.
But of course, no one came.
Only silence remained.
The kind that lingers long after a conversation ends.
The kind that says everything that words no longer can.
I stepped back, giving the table its space again.
Because somehow, it didn’t feel right to disturb it.
Not after twenty years of dinners that had never truly been eaten alone.
