Maybe the warmth that slowly vanished or the care that gradually diminished. We always used to begin our first winter dinner by holding hands and raising hopes to be able to witness snow falling upon our heads for countless years to come. Two cups of our favorite tea — chamomile for you and earl grey for me — would be next to sip. Don’t you remember the snug feeling our hands had when they stuck to the glass? Or the comfort our bodies spoke when they met skin to skin?
I prepare your favorite sliced beef with garlic sauce that made with emptiness and longing for your eyes to worship my whole being with love tonight. Almost swapped salt for sugar, thinking a little sweetness in your go-to meal would bring you back to who you are used to be. But I realize you are not a sweet tooth, you hate sugar in food. That’s why you never really finished your desserts. That’s why you started to taste this bitter.
A pair of cutlery is neatly arranged on the table. I hear your footsteps approaching, the sound of your shoes clashing against the floor that you said was made of the best wood. I am seated with my best smile, the one I always wear to cure and drive away the tiredness you bring home from life outside the door. I’m glad to see you smile back — I haven’t seen it much lately. So, I peel you an orange that the old woman in the market said is the sweetest for this season. The color somehow reminds me of that one sky we saw months ago, where we kissed underneath as the sun set.
Not even a single hello comes, it is alright. You start to pick your plate and put your meals altogether. Once again, we eat in silence — a silence that is louder than the sound of embers burning in the stove. What’s with this situation, I don’t know, but I prefer to be buried under the snow than to feel the coldness around your presence. Shouldn’t I have been able to hold your hand then wrap it around my waist first and likewise?
Or maybe, I should have served you nothing but my anger on the dining table tonight. Along with a swollen mess that is burning from my vain eyes or a broken scream that might take my breath away out of frustration. The distance between us feels like an unbridgeable chasm. The clock is ticking and its sound is becoming a painful reminder of the seconds slipping away without a simple ‘How was your day?’ or ‘People are so annoying in work today.’
And I do not see you feeling bothered even a bit, do you enjoy my despair in every chew you commit?
I wonder if you feel the void too, if you could sense the echoes of our laughter that used to fill the room like the sweet tunes of our favorite Westlife song. The flickering candle on the table casts shadows that dance in rhythm with the unspoken tension, more than enough to explain the emptiness that has taken residence in the space we once shared. I hope to break the silence, but my words hang in the air, disappearing into the unsaid resentments that linger between us.
Tonight will go the same as the nights that have passed, with me only finding myself yearning for the days when we were more than just two bodies occupying the same table.
The residue of unspoken words settles on the tablecloth like a heavy fog. Then I clear the dishes, the clinking of silverware against the table echoing the detachment we both feel. I steal a glance at you, hoping to catch a glimpse of recognition or a spark of the love we once held. But your gaze remains distant, locked onto a point beyond my reach. The quiet aftermath of the dinner was supposed to revive what we lost, yet I am left with a hollow chest, a longing for the warmth that used to be, and the realization that some things, that once broken, may never be fully repaired.
Maybe the dining table should have been served not just with plates and spoons but with the unsaid promises to nurture the flame we let fade, bring back the warmth that once we let vanish, and care we let diminish. Maybe I should have served you a better love so you won’t leave the chair just like that but move it closer next to me instead.
