we set the table, and lay the cups. one coffee, one tea, and one beverage from a tiny corner of the world that killed something in all of us. food lies across every inch of the table and there is no space for anything more. ever again. we talk and chat and share stories from the past, what now seems like a lifetime. she tells me that she is trying to unlearn the need to run away from the home that raised her; to dress like them, and smell like them, and talk like them. trying to forget how to roll her r’s and pack up her verbal hums. i simply nod. 

it’s funny, almost hysterical, sitting in a room, in what should feel like home. but well, i too, left my ittar, and my food, and my culture, and anything that might let anyone know i'm different. we talk, and tell each other everything. the not knowing destroys me. i don’t let it show. 

sometimes, i get deeply sick of my own company. you can run away halfway across the world, but alas, you must run away with yourself. you must wait and be ready to be found again. in a dinner that bleeds and stinks of everything that could've been; an old habit, an old intention. 

the food runs out and we sit there. now, at this point in the story, i must interject to say that the sun had set and the distant sounds of traffic had begun to die down. the birds, which were previously drowned out by the sound of big tech, had been replaced by crickets. i was one cup of coffee in, an unfortunate habit that started on a day i cant quite remember with a feeling i cant quite forget. they sit there and smile and i can almost place the childlike faces i once knew, if i squint hard enough. 

i think about the irony of it all. the diary that still existed somewhere. the haunted admission of a life that couldn't exist without them. the reminder that the last time i felt at home, i mourned for a third of a decade. 

we get dessert and remind ourselves of simpler times. this is unfortunately how the night ends. in this chaos. this unsettled falling arc. we find peace in knowing that we might never see each other again. my heart aches and i can almost taste my aorta at the back of my throat but c’est la vie. 

that night, i let myself grieve. 

again. 

i move three days later, 

without the empty chair.