Dear me,
The invitations this week arrived later — if at all.
A quiet shift.
Me stepping aside,
and them feeling rejected.
Eyes speak louder than the third glass of wine.
That kind of language.
And when you've spent half a lifetime with your opponent — your friend —
you know.
They know. I know.
It is not an easy decision to leave a chair you've been sitting in for 15 years.
Silence confirms it.
Someone doesn't belong at this table anymore.
And I chose that someone to be me.
We are two sides of the same story.
Theirs is settled.
Mine is on fire.
I'm standing at an exit
that feels more like an entry point.
Everything has a price.
I'm due to pay my subscription
if this is truly my choice.
Mine is friends who once knew me inside and out
and now don't know me at all.
So, table for one, please.
Is it really a loss
when it no longer exists —when I no longer exist there?
—
Dear me,
Maybe I am leaving at the right time,
if I ever want to sit back in that chair again.
And maybe my seat will stay empty for a while.
What truly scares me is not being alone,
but not knowing who I am when I am alone.
These letters weren't written for attention or fame.
This isn't about reading — it's an invitation to my empty table.
Because some dinners you don't eat alone.
I am reminiscing.
Seated at an empty table.
Three chairs open.
Waiting for the missing piece —
someone who is here,
in motion,
unsettled,
alive.
Until then,
table for one, please.
Because I don't want enough.
I want more.
I want it all.