Chapter Twenty-Six – The Empty Chair
1037 Words
The café smelled of warm bread and roasted coffee beans, the kind of place that tried to promise comfort in every corner. Afternoon light filtered through the windows, glinting off silverware and catching in the water glasses set neatly on the table. Three women sat together, their yoga mats rolled up beside their chairs, their clothes still smelling faintly of lavender detergent and sweat.
The fourth chair at the table was empty.
Allison kept glancing at it, like expecting Elena to walk in late with an apologetic smile, hair pulled back and phone buzzing in her hand. But the seat stayed vacant, a hollow shape among them.
Lizzie set her phone face down on the table for the third time in ten minutes. “She’s not coming.”
Mary lifted her brows. “Maybe she got caught up at work.”
“No.” Allison shook her head, her blonde ponytail brushing her shoulder. “She told us she’d be here. She even texted yesterday to confirm. Elena doesn’t forget things.”
Lizzie sighed, folding her napkin into a small square she immediately unfolded again. “I called twice. No answer. Sent a message. Nothing.”
“Maybe she just needs space,” Mary suggested carefully, though her voice lacked conviction.
Lizzie leaned forward, eyes sharp. “And what have we been giving her for the past year if not space? Space to hurt. Space to isolate. Space to smile politely while the ground gave way under her feet.”
The words silenced the table. Even the hum of the café seemed to recede.
Allison broke it with a sigh. “You make it sound like we’re terrible friends.”
Lizzie’s eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “No. We’re just comfortable ones. We let her keep her walls because it was easier for us. She said she was fine, and we believed her. Maybe we wanted to believe her.”
Mary stirred her water with a straw, though there was nothing in it to mix. “She’s strong. Always has been. She was the one who organized those summer dinners when our kids were still in grade school. Remember? Richard would grill, and Elena would plan the whole thing down to the table settings. She never missed a detail.”
Allison smiled faintly. “And Kevin running around in that baseball uniform, pretending the backyard was Yankee Stadium.”
Mary nodded, her smile fading as quickly as it had come. “She was… radiant then. Busy, sure, but happy. At least she looked happy.”
Lizzie’s lips pressed together. “And now? She’s porcelain. That’s what I keep thinking. A porcelain doll. Beautiful, elegant. Something you put on a shelf so everyone can admire it. But if you look closely, there are cracks spidering under the glaze. Tiny at first, then deeper. One day, the whole thing gives way.”
Allison shivered. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No,” Lizzie said simply. “Not if you’ve watched her like I have. She hides it well, but I see it. The way her hands shake sometimes when she thinks no one notices. The way her laugh comes half a second too late in conversation. The way she never says the word ‘lonely,’ but it’s in every silence she leaves hanging.”
Mary’s throat tightened. “Do you think she… I mean, would she ever hurt herself?”
The question cracked the air. None of them wanted to say it, but it had been hovering unspoken.
Lizzie inhaled slowly. “I don’t know. And that terrifies me more than if I did.”
Allison leaned back, pressing a hand to her chest. “She always tells us she doesn’t need anyone. That she’s got her work, her patients. Maybe that’s enough for her.”
“Or maybe that’s the lie we let her live in,” Lizzie said. Her eyes glistened, though she blinked the shine away before it spilled over. “People like Elena… they spend all day listening to everyone else’s pain. They wear armor so convincing even their closest friends stop asking if they’re bleeding underneath.”
The waiter came by, setting down three salads they hadn’t ordered but had picked automatically from the menu weeks ago. Routine. Habit. He asked if they needed anything else; they all shook their heads in unison, polite and distracted.
Mary poked at her greens. “So what do we do? Force her to open up? Drag her here next time?”
Allison gave a humorless laugh. “Have you ever tried dragging Elena anywhere she didn’t want to go? You’d have more luck moving the café walls.”
“Then we stop asking permission,” Lizzie said quietly. “We show up. At her office, at her house. Not to smother her, but to remind her that silence isn’t the only option. That she can lean without falling.”
Mary bit her lip. “What if she resents us for it?”
Lizzie’s expression was steady. “Better her anger than her absence.”
The words settled heavily. Each woman felt them in her own way: guilt, fear, helplessness.
Allison finally whispered, “Maybe we’ve all been a little deaf.”
Mary frowned. “Deaf?”
“Yes.” Allison’s voice shook. “Deaf to her silence. Deaf to how much she’s been holding. She told us she was fine, and we nodded because it was easier than prying. But maybe… maybe we should’ve listened harder.”
Lizzie reached across the table, her fingers brushing Mary’s hand, then Allison’s. “It’s not too late. Not yet. But if we keep waiting for her to say the words herself, one day she won’t have them left to say.”
The three of them sat together in the noisy café, food untouched, their hearts knotted with the same dread. Outside the window, people passed by with shopping bags and laughter, oblivious to the fact that somewhere not far away, a woman they loved was already closer to the edge than any of them had dared to admit until now.
And the empty chair at their table said more than any of them could.
- Writer
