The Waiting Room
We sat across from each other in the cramped waiting room, plastic chairs squeaking beneath us. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me, but I kept my eyes on the crumpled magazine in my lap, pretending to read. It was easier this way.
“So, how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice light, casual, as if we were old friends who’d drifted apart, not the tangled mess we actually were.
“Good,” I replied, forcing a small smile. “Busy with work. You know how it is.”
She nodded, looking down at her hands. “Yeah, same here. Work’s been… consuming.”
We both fell silent. The air was thick, filled with things unsaid, things that couldn’t fit into the small space between us. My hands clenched the edges of the magazine tighter, and I could feel her shifting, waiting for something.
“I heard you moved,” I said finally, breaking the silence with a question that wasn’t really a question.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Needed a fresh start.”
I nodded, feeling the familiar sting of regret creep up my spine. “That’s good. Fresh starts are… good.”
She looked at me, her expression soft but distant, like she was searching for the right words but couldn’t find them. “Are they, though?”
I glanced at her, meeting her eyes for the first time. “I mean… maybe not always.”
We both fell quiet again, the hum of the waiting room clock ticking away our seconds. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things I wanted to ask, but the words were stuck, tangled and knotted in my throat.
Finally, she stood up, giving me a sad, half-smile. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. “Nice seeing you, too.”
As she walked away, I wanted to call after her, say all the things I’d left unsaid, and ask if she missed us the way I did. But I stayed silent, watching as she disappeared down the hall, carrying all the words I’d never say.
Title: The Dinner Table
We sat across from each other at the dinner table, the candles flickering softly between us. The clinking of forks and knives filled the silence as I picked at my food, avoiding his gaze. He’d been quiet all evening, his usual warmth replaced by something distant and cold.
“So,” he began, his voice a little too even. “You’ve been working late a lot lately.”
I forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s just been busy. Lots of projects piling up.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on his plate. “Must be tough… all those long hours.”
There it was, the subtle edge beneath his words. I took a sip of wine, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t tip the balance. “Yeah, well, it’s part of the job, you know?”
He looked up then, his gaze sharp. “Right. Part of the job.”
I felt my stomach twist, the weight of what he wasn’t saying hanging heavy in the air. “And you? How’s work?” I asked, trying to shift the conversation away from the unspoken tension.
He shrugged, barely glancing at me. “Same as always.”
Silence settled over us again, thick and uncomfortable. I wanted to reach across the table, to break through whatever wall had risen between us, but something held me back. Instead, I kept my hands folded in my lap, gripping the napkin until my knuckles turned white.
“So, is there… anything you want to talk about?” he asked finally, his voice softer, almost hesitant.
I shook my head, forcing a smile. “No, nothing. Everything’s fine.”
He nodded, mirroring my forced smile, but his eyes were sad, searching. We both knew everything was far from fine, but neither of us was brave enough to say it out loud.
We finished our dinner in silence, each of us clinging to the polite words we were saying, letting the truth slip quietly away, lost in the flickering candlelight.
