"I cooked dinner... I'll be waiting for you, my love."
Sofia stared at the message on her phone screen. Her thumb hovered over the send button, unmoving.
She had read it countless times. Rewrote it twice. Deleted it three times.
She stared at the blinking cursor like it was mocking her. Because deep down, she already knew what his reply would be.
It had been over a month since Adam last joined her at the dining table. Over a month since they sat across from each other, sharing even the simplest of meals, the simplest of words.
And yet, every morning, she still made him coffee.
Every night, she still set a second plate on the table.
She sent him messages—small, soft reminders of her presence. Of her love. Of the woman still waiting for him at home.
But his replies never changed.
"I have to leave early. I can't eat breakfast."
"I'll be home late. Eat without me."
So, she ate alone. With a fork in one hand and her phone in the other—waiting, hoping, hurting.
