The Weight of Goodbyes
By the time Amanda finally left the diner, the streetlights buzzed and swayed in the cold night air. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, the laughter and warmth from the booth already fading like breath on glass.
Angela had walked her to her car, both of them kicking at the gravel in the parking lot like awkward teenagers. Amanda half-expected—half-wanted—Angela to say something more. To give her some last-minute permission not to go home.
But Angela had only smiled, soft and knowing.
"Text me if you need to," she’d said, voice easy but serious. "Even if it's just about how bad the fries were."
Amanda had nodded, tucking the words away like a lifeline. Then she slid into her car, started the engine, and drove toward the inevitable.
The house was dark when she pulled up, every window black and hollow. She sat in the driveway for a long moment, forehead resting against the steering wheel, willing herself to move.
When she finally stepped inside, the silence was suffocating.
H was at the kitchen table, the same place he always was lately, staring down at his laptop like it might give him an escape hatch. A half-empty whiskey glass sat next to him. Amanda hovered by the door, suddenly unsure how to start.
H didn’t look up.
"We need to stop pretending," he said, voice flat.
Amanda stayed still. It didn’t even feel like a wound anymore. Just a dull, inevitable ache.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He finally glanced up at her, and for a second, she thought she saw regret flicker across his face. Or maybe it was just exhaustion.
"I'll start packing up tomorrow," he said.
Amanda nodded again. There was nothing left to say.
H stood, gathering his glass and his laptop, brushing past her without a touch. Without a look.
Amanda stood alone in the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She listened to the sounds of H moving through the house—the distant creak of closet doors, the muted thud of boxes being dragged out.
She thought she might cry.
Instead, she moved like a sleepwalker through the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, pulling down a chipped mug. Autopilot. Routine. Something to fill the emptiness.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Angela: Just checking in. Hope you're surviving the fries. ;)
Amanda stared at the screen, her throat tightening.
Before she could overthink it, she tapped out a reply.
Amanda: Barely. Might need a support group.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Angela: On it. We'll form "Teachers Against Sad Diner Food." First meeting: whenever you need.
Amanda let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
She set the phone down carefully and wrapped both hands around her cooling mug.
The house was still too dark. Still too silent.
But somewhere—outside the wreckage of everything she'd built—someone was still reaching for her.
And for the first time in months, Amanda let herself reach back.