We sat there—she and I—eating Italian food.
It started out well: pizza, spaghetti, garlic bread, and a pitcher of beer.
Halfway through dinner, the mood shifted—just slightly, but enough.
She mentioned a message from a woman on social media. I replied.
Before I knew it, the air thickened—
my fidelity, now on trial.
I smiled, trying not to feed the flame.
I sat there, absorbing the weight of her words,
each one a subtle blow.
Then came the dam-break:
all the pain I’d put her through over the years
flooded back to her,
rushing in fast and loud.
Silence followed.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
And nothing spoke louder than what we didn’t say.
The check came.
She handed me her debit card.
I pushed it aside and paid.
We boxed the remaining slices of pizza,
stood up, and walked out—
two strangers crossing a street:
she looking left,
me looking right.
She handed me the keys, and
I unlocked the doors.
We got in.
There we sat—
me in the driver’s seat,
her in the passenger’s—
and silence sprawled across both our laps
as if posing for a photograph.
I wondered if this was how love
ends—not in shouting, but in silence.