Longing

You find the room by accident.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You hear laughter through the door. Not the polite kind exchanged between strangers, but the comfortable kind that comes from knowing someone well enough to finish their sentences.

You stand outside for a while.

Nobody has told you not to come in.

Nobody has invited you, either.

Still, the door is open.

Inside, people sit around a long table. Their chairs are pulled close together. They lean toward one another, exchanging stories you don't understand.

Someone notices you.

There's a smile.

“Come in. There's room.”

You look around.

Every chair is occupied except one at the far end of the table.

You take it.

At first, you listen.

You learn their names. You laugh when they laugh, even when you don't understand the joke.

You discover which stories have been told a hundred times and which subjects make everyone groan.

Occasionally, someone turns toward you.

They ask a question.

You answer.

Sometimes, they seem interested.

You begin looking forward to coming back.

You start bringing things with you. Little pieces of yourself, carefully selected, hoping someone might find them interesting.

A story.

A memory.

Something that made you laugh.

Something that hurt.

You place each offering on the table.

Some are picked up immediately.

Others sit untouched.

You tell yourself that's normal.

Not everything can interest everyone.

And you're grateful to be there.

Eventually, you begin to recognize the sound of particular footsteps.

You know who will greet you first. Who will ask what you've brought. Who will pull your chair out a little farther so you can sit comfortably.

You start to believe that your absence might be noticed.

It's a wonderful feeling.

One evening, you arrive carrying something heavier than usual.

You've spent a long time deciding whether to bring it.

It's fragile. Something you've kept hidden for years, wrapped carefully so nobody could see how much it mattered.

You set it on the table.

A few people look.

Someone reaches across and touches it.

“Ouch,” they say softly.

You smile, though your throat tightens.

They understand.

At least, you think they do.

Then the conversation moves on.

You remain seated, looking at what you've brought.

You hadn't expected everyone to stop talking.

You hadn't expected applause.

You only thought someone might stay with you for a little while.

The next evening, you come back.

The room is louder than usual.

Everyone is gathered around the opposite end of the table, admiring something another person has brought.

You look at it.

It's beautiful.

You can see why they love it.

Someone says it deserves a place of honor.

Others agree.

You want to agree, too.

You do agree.

But something ugly stirs beneath your ribs.

You hate it immediately.

You don't want to resent something beautiful.

You don't want to count how many people are gathered around it.

You don't want to remember how quickly they turned away from yours.

You don't want to be this person.

Yet there you are.

You begin arriving earlier.

You tell yourself you enjoy the quiet before everyone comes.

Really, you want to see who notices you first.

Sometimes someone does.

Sometimes nobody does.

You start watching the chairs.

You notice how certain people always sit together. How they save places for one another. How their conversations continue even when someone leaves the room.

You notice the way they call across the table.

The affectionate teasing.

The promises to return tomorrow.

You wonder how long it takes to become someone whose chair is saved.

A month?

A year?

Twenty years?

You wonder whether there's a particular thing you have to say.

A particular person you have to impress.

Perhaps you've been sitting in the wrong chair.

Perhaps you've been talking too much.

Perhaps you haven't been talking enough.

You begin rehearsing your greetings before entering.

You laugh a little louder.

You ask more questions.

You make sure to admire what everyone else brings.

You mean the compliments.

That's what makes it worse.

Because somewhere along the way, you begin hoping your kindness will be remembered.

One day, the person who usually greets you doesn't.

You wait.

You can hear their voice from the other end of the table.

They're laughing with someone.

You look down at the thing you've brought.

It's still sitting in front of you.

You wait a little longer.

Perhaps they haven't noticed you're there.

Perhaps they'll come over when they're finished.

You begin wondering whether you offended them.

You replay your last conversation.

Nothing seems wrong.

But you've been wrong before.

You know how easily a person's affection can disappear without explanation.

You know what it feels like to wait for someone who promised to come.

You know what it feels like to watch other people receive the attention you wanted.

You thought you'd left that feeling somewhere else.

You hadn't expected to find it here.

The next time you enter, you don't bring anything.

You sit down quietly.

Nobody asks why your hands are empty.

You look around at the people you've come to know.

They're not cruel.

That's the difficult part.

They smile when they see you. They say kind things. Sometimes they even seem delighted you're there.

But you can't tell whether you're a guest or a friend.

You can't tell whether anyone would look for you if you stopped coming.

You stare at the empty space in front of you.

You think about all the things you've brought.

All the pieces you've placed on this table.

You wonder whether anyone has kept one.

You wonder whether they've all been thrown away.

And then you hate yourself for wondering.

You stand.

Nobody stops talking.

You push your chair beneath the table.

Someone looks up.

“Leaving already?”

You nod.

“See you tomorrow.”

You almost ask whether they mean it.

Instead, you smile.

Outside, the hallway is quiet.

You stand with your hand against the door, listening to the conversation continue without you.

For a moment, you consider going back.

You could bring something better tomorrow.

Something funny.

Something clever.

Something that would make everyone turn their heads.

You could keep trying until somebody finally saved you a seat.

But you're tired.

Not of the people.

Not even of the room.

You're tired of watching yourself become someone who measures their worth by whether another person turns around.

You begin walking away.

Halfway down the hall, you stop.

You remember your chair.

The one at the far end.

The one nobody had been sitting in when you arrived.

You wonder whether it was empty because someone had saved it for you.

Or because nobody wanted it.

You realize you've never asked.

You turn toward the door.

Then you turn away again.

For tonight, you leave the question unanswered.

And for the first time since finding the room, you go home without checking whether anyone is watching.