The Empty Chair

by Malkeet Kaur

The café was always too bright, the kind of light that made you squint even on overcast days. She sat by the window, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The steam had stopped rising minutes ago, but she hadn’t noticed. Outside, the rain tapped against the glass in uneven rhythms, like a song someone had started but forgotten how to finish.

He was supposed to meet her at three. The clock on the wall, its hands chipped and yellowed, now read 3:47. She didn’t check her phone. She already knew there would be no message, no call. The table between her and the empty chair was set for two -a fork, a knife, a napkin folded into a stiff triangle. The salt shaker leaned slightly to the left, as if it, too, had given up waiting.

When the waitress came by, her apron stained with coffee rings, she asked if she should clear the other place setting. “No,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “Not yet.” The waitress nodded, her eyes lingering a moment too long before she walked away.

The rain grew heavier, blurring the world outside into streaks of gray and green. A man with a black umbrella hurried past, his shoes splashing through puddles that shimmered under the streetlights. She wondered if he was late for something important, or if he, too, was running from something that hadn’t even started.

She reached for the sugar packet on the table, tearing it open with more force than necessary. The granules spilled onto the saucer, catching the light like tiny shards of glass. She stirred them into the cold coffee, watching as they dissolved into nothing.

The door chimed, and for a moment, her heart leapt. But it was only a couple, laughing as they shook the rain from their coats. They took a table near the back, their voices blending with the hum of the espresso machine. She looked at the empty chair again, the way the light from the window fell across its seat, casting a shadow that stretched toward her like an unfinished thought.

When she finally stood to leave, her coat brushed against the table, knocking the salt shaker over. It rolled in a slow, deliberate circle before coming to a stop at the edge. She didn’t pick it up. The waitress would clear it away, along with the untouched place setting, the cold coffee, the sugar that had already disappeared.

Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. She stepped into it without opening her umbrella, the drops cool against her skin. The street stretched ahead, slick and shimmering, leading somewhere she couldn’t quite see. She walked slowly, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, as if the city itself were holding its breath, waiting for something that might never come.