Familiar

Café lights reflected faintly in the window.

For a moment, my reflection overlapped with the empty chair across from me

Together we looked like a conversation waiting to begin.

I kept glancing at it.

There are evenings when the heart quietly wanders ahead of life.

The door opening

A familiar face

Someone crossing the room without hesitation, choosing this table as though they had always known where they belonged.

Outside, people drifted past the glass and disappeared into the night.

A napkin rested beneath my cup.

I turned it over between my fingers.

The last time I sat here, I covered one with half-finished thoughts and left it behind.

Such a small thing to remember.

Still, some part of me has never stopped wondering who picked it up after I was gone.

The chair remained empty.

Even so, I imagined someone sitting down without asking.

Not to rescue me.

Not to change anything.

Just to find my hand, as though it had been expected there all along.

I looked once more at the chair.

Then at the napkin.

Then at my hands.

It didn't look empty anymore.

It looked familiar.