you thought the table was set for two, but you’re on your own, kid

I read something by Aaron Arciaga once — gentle words wrapped in rain-soaked silk — and it never quite let go of me. It hummed like the static between songs, like a secret I already knew but hadn’t found the words for yet.

It reminded me of those quiet nights —

The kind where the world feels folded in on itself, and I take myself out to dinner just to watch the way candles flicker. I drink in the silence like wine, trace constellations across my ceiling, and pretend my hand isn’t reaching for a hand that was never there.

I sleep soundly, most nights.

I have routines, rituals — a life that fits.

But still, I light a second candle for no one.

I pour two cups of tea and let one go cold.

I whisper little nothings into the air and pretend someone catches them mid-fall.

No one’s ever waiting for me at the end of the day —

But sometimes I leave the hallway light on anyway.

And it’s not that I’m lonely. Not really.

It’s just… sometimes I hear a love song and smile like it’s about me.

Like maybe someone out there is humming along too, just a little off-key, just a little hopeful.

I’m not looking for anyone.

But I still glance up when the train stops —

Still pause when a stranger says my name like it matters.

I know it’s silly.

But I keep writing letters I’ll never send,

Keep buying fresh flowers for a table set for one.

Because maybe — in some parallel version of my life —

someone’s walking home under the same moon,

imagining the same soft kind of maybe.

And maybe… that’s enough for now.