The Weight of Silver

The glass feels cool against my fingertips. Another sip, another layer shed.
He's late. Not unexpected. Punctuality is a virtue reserved for the mundane, isn’t it?
Each passing shadow lengthens on the tablecloth, mimicking the distance between us – a space he cultivates with practiced ease. I remember a time when such absences would have felt like shards.
Now? Only the faint ache of recognition. The silver chain around my neck is cold; a beautiful weight. It’s a gift from him, years ago, during happier times. A relic of a different me.
He arrives with the scent of rain and regret clinging to his coat – always the theatrics. I don't look up. Let him see only the curve of my neck, the quiet surrender in the way I hold this glass.
Perhaps tonight will be different. Perhaps he’ll finally understand that some silences aren’t invitations for absence, but desperate pleas to be seen – truly seen – in all their stark vulnerability.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost