TDSMC

Every Friday at exactly 6:12 p.m., the man sat in the same booth at Rosie’s Diner on Highway 9, the one by the window with a direct view of the parking lot. The regulars noticed it long before they ever spoke about it, because consistency like that sticks out in a place where most people drift in and out without patterns. He always ordered the same thing: black coffee, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and a slice of apple pie he never touched. He wore the same gray jacket no matter the weather, winter or summer, rain or heat, and he always placed his phone face down beside his right hand as if he was waiting for it to betray him. People assumed the usual things at first, that he was lonely, or grieving, or simply stuck in his ways, but the truth was stranger and far heavier than anything the town had imagined. The waitress, a woman named Claire who had worked at Rosie’s for nearly thirteen years, tried to engage him in conversation during his first few visits, offering small talk about traf...

The rain started five minutes after she slammed my car door. I remember the time because I stared at the dashboard like it could explain what had just happened—8:17 p.m. The streetlights flickered on one by one as if the city itself was waking up to witness the end of something. Maya walked away without looking back, shoulders stiff, hair already soaking through. The rain swallowed her shape as she turned the corner. We had just had the worst argument of our relationship. Not screaming. Not insults. Worse—quiet disappointment. The kind that makes you feel small. “Don’t follow me,” she said when she opened the door. So I didn’t. That was my first mistake. Maya was twenty-four. Nursing student. The kind of person who cried at animal shelter videos but argued like a lawyer when she believed she was right. She moved through the world softly but never weakly. We had been together almost two years. Long enough to build habits. Long enough to build resentment. Lately, everyth...