Spare.

I sit in coffee shops, table for two but there’s only me. There’s poetic justice in that I suppose. It’s in the way I’d always thought of the people who did that as artsy, cool, confident, brave. Now I’m one of those people and I’m not sure I’d call myself any of those things.

It’s ironic in some ways as well. We’d planned all the things we’d do, the places we’d go and the things we’d see. Then you left. And I wanted to escape the emptiness. How could I be so naive? How did I not see that I was escaping the memories of what we’d had into the memories we will never have? What’s worse is that I can’t tell which one hurts more.

In some ways it feels as if I’ve lost something. Lost my love, lost my fresh start, lost who I thought I was. Who I'm meant to be.

Only me at the table for two. The other chair is a spare. Like me.