The Seat Beside Him

The Anchor had always been my favourite bar, my home away from home. Not just somewhere I went, but somewhere I returned to week after week, like muscle memory. Fridays, Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, when I promised myself one drink and stayed for three. The staff knew my order. The regulars and I had running jokes. It was the sort of place where you walked in as a stranger and always left feeling like a friend.

That night, I arrived late, shaking rain from my umbrella, already comforted by the ritual of it all. The smell - lager, citrus cleaner, damp coats - settled into me instantly. I shrugged off my jacket and scanned the room, expecting the usual ease of familiar faces, the comforting relief of being known.

And then I saw them.

Maya sat on one of the high stools near the back, her body angled towards him in a way that wasn't accidental. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm as she laughed, bright and unguarded. He leaned in close, saying something meant just for her, something that made her tilt her head back and smile at the ceiling like she'd been given a gift.

I stopped walking.

There are moments when your body reacts before your mind can keep up. This was one of them. A tightening in my chest. A thudding heartbeat. A sharp, shallow breath.

Tom's back was half-turned, but I knew the slope of his shoulders, the way his hair fell just slightly into his eyes. I knew how his voice dropped when he said something meant to sound casual but wasn't. I knew the empty barstool beside him, the one I'd perched on so many times, knees brushing his, exchanging quiet smiles, pretending it didn't matter.

I told myself not to assume. Maya was affectionate with everyone. Tom was warm in a way that never quite promised anything. I stood there longer than I meant to, my feet refusing to move.

"Excuse me", someone brushed past me, pulling me back into the room.

I quickly moved towards the narrow space by the pillar near the corridor, close enough to hear but hidden enough not to be seen. I didn't tell myself I was eavesdropping. I told myself I was waiting for the bar to clear, that I'd go over in a moment, that this was temporary.

"I didn't think you'd actually come tonight," Maya said, lowering her voice.

Tom laughed softly. "I said I would."

"Yeah, but you say a lot of things."

Her tone was teasing, but there was something else threaded through it: relief, expectation, hope. I pressed my palm against the wall, suddenly aware of how loud my heart felt inside my chest.

"I wanted to see you," Tom said. "Properly, I mean. Not just… here."

Not just here.

The words landed with a dull, familiar weight. Here was where we existed, where things stayed undefined, where nothing had to mean more than it did.

Maya smiled. "I liked last weekend."

"So did I."

Their voices dipped lower, conspiratorial. I leaned closer without meaning to.

"I'm not sure how to tell her," Maya said.

"Do you need to?" Tom replied.

"She's my friend."

The word reached me quietly, but with precision. Not because it wasn't true, but because of how carefully it was said, as though I might shatter when I found out.

"I didn't realise you two were that close," Tom said after a pause.

My stomach tightened.

"We're not super close," Maya whispered. "But she did tell me about you. How much she liked you."

"I know."

The certainty in his voice made my fingers curl into my palm.

"But you never…" Maya hesitated. "You never asked her out, did you?"

"No."

The simplicity of it left no room for pretence.

My mind slipped, unbidden, to the night I met him. Random. Unplanned. Just another Saturday night. I'd been leaning against the bar when he appeared beside me, saying something stupid and charming. I remembered the sudden nerves, the giddy warmth in my chest, how unfamiliar it felt - the first man in years to make me feel like that.

We became "friends" after that. Drinks turned into late nights. Late nights turned into familiarity. Familiarity turned into intimacy, slowly and carefully, as though it were intentional.

"I thought she was fine with it," Tom continued. "It was just… easy."

Easy.

The word tasted bitter.

"I just don't want her to feel like she was a placeholder," Maya said.

The silence that followed felt deliberate.

"I didn't mean it like that," Tom said finally. "Things just didn't go anywhere."

They didn't go anywhere because they were never meant to. Because I was never good enough for "not just here". Because, yet again, I had mistaken repetition for progress.

I stepped out from behind the pillar.

The movement felt louder than it was, like I'd knocked something over. Maya noticed first. Her smile faltered, her hand slipping from Tom's arm as though she'd only just remembered it was there.

"Oh," she said.

Tom turned more slowly. Surprise crossed his face, followed by something careful. Guarded. I waited for the small, familiar smile - the one he used to give me when I caught his eye across the room, like we shared something unspoken.

It didn't come.

"How long have you been there?" Maya asked.

"Not long," I said, though the words felt thin in my mouth.

The bar seemed to contract around us. I became aware of everything at once - the bass of the music, a glass clinking too loudly, laughter bursting from a table that had nothing to do with us.

"We were just catching up," Maya said quickly.

"I can see that."

Tom shifted his weight. He opened his mouth, closed it again. I waited for my name, for an explanation, for something that suggested I meant something. I realised, distantly, that I had been waiting like this for years.

"I never meant to hurt you," he said.

I believed him. I always did.

I looked at him properly then. Not at the man I'd imagined, not the one who lingered, who stayed late, who cared, but the one standing in front of me now. Uncomfortable. Distant. Strange.

It wasn't cruelty. It was an absence.

An absence, I realised, that felt all too familiar.

There had been others before him. Different faces, different settings, the same quiet shift I never caught in time. The moment I understood I had been useful, warm, convenient, uncomplicated, but never essential.

I laughed quietly to myself. I'd made space for yet another man who wanted me only briefly.

There was an urge to soften myself, to make this easier. To reassure them that I was fine, that I understood, that this didn't have to be awkward. I'd done that before.

Stepped aside.

Made room.

I wasn't doing that now.

I was tired of the version of myself who believed that closeness would eventually turn into care if I waited long enough.

"You don't owe me anything," I said.

The words came out steadier than I felt.

I hesitated, then added, "We were never friends anyway."

He didn't argue. He didn't reach for me. In that quiet, something settled, not relief, but clarity.

I looked at him properly then. Not the version I'd edited in my head, but the one standing in front of me, uncomfortable, silent, always at arm's length.

"Take care of yourself, Tom," I said.

I didn't wait for a reply.

Outside, the rain had softened into a fine mist, cool against my skin. I stood there for a moment, breathing it in, like I'd been underwater and only just surfaced.

The door opened behind me.

"I'm so sorry," Maya said.

She stood a little distance away, arms folded tight, eyes searching my face as if she might find permission there, forgiveness, perhaps.

"Me too," I said.

It was the only honest thing I had left.

She nodded once and went back inside. I didn't watch her go.

I stayed where I was, letting the night settle. And somewhere between the pavement and the quiet, I understood what I had lost.

Not him.

But the faith I had placed in the person I thought he could be.

The shadow of the man I hoped, one day, I would see.

But neither one was real.

Not the one I built in my head,

nor the one who stood before me.

Both versions were never capable of loving me.

Behind me, the pub glowed warm and familiar, its windows fogged with laughter and bodies pressed close. It had always been the place I returned to without thinking, the room that knew me even when people didn't.

But that night, the doorway felt narrower, the noise too loud. A place I knew by heart suddenly felt unfamiliar, like I'd misremembered it.

And for the first time, I didn't want to go inside.