4. The Empty Seat
T he smoke reaches me before Mateo does. It drifts through the warm evening air like a slow yearning, curling above the bamboo railing that separates the patio from the sidewalk. Naomi waves it away with a look that says she’s tired of holding her tongue.
“You really have to do that before dinner?” she mutters.
Mateo steps back onto the patio and drops into his seat like he’s settling into a couch. “It’s not dinner. It’s Thai tapas.”
Naomi doesn’t answer. She just gives him that side-eye squint she’s perfected—equal parts disdain and affection—and stabs a piece of tofu with her fork.
I push my noodles around with chopsticks I never learned to use correctly. They’re going cold.
“Okay,” Naomi says, resting her elbow on the table. “You’ve been quiet for three minutes straight. That’s never good.”
Shrug. “Just tired. Hot as hell today.”
“Yeah?” Mateo says, reaching for his water. “You sure it’s not a different kind of heat?”
Naomi sighs. “Oh no.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?”
Naomi sets her fork down with a little too much force. “Y’all are doing this right now?”
I don’t look at either of them. “I wasn’t going to bring it up.”
“But you did,” Mateo says.
I shift in my seat. The string lights above cast a warm haze over the table, softening the edges of everything except the knot tightening in my chest. I exhale slowly, then say it.
“I think I want to talk to him.”
Naomi goes still.
Mateo blinks. “Wait. Kevin?”
I nod.
Naomi leans back in her chair, arms folded. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—seeing him that morning—I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Mateo whistles low. “One sighting and you’re already planning the sequel?”
“It wasn’t even a conversation. He didn’t see me. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
Naomi tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle that rearranged itself overnight. “And you think talking to him is a good idea?”
“I think it’s just one conversation. Nothing more—”
Naomi cuts in before I can finish. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”
Her voice is sharper now, and Mateo’s already poking the fire .
“I mean, what’s the worst that happens?” Mateo says. “Kevin punches him? Cries? Confesses eternal love in the middle of Piedmont Park?”
Naomi groans. “Don’t be stupid.”
They go back and forth, voices rising and curling like the steam off our plates.
And I’m gone. Just like that, I’m thirteen again.
~
Sitting at the far end of the middle school lunch table, I rest one arm across my tray like a shield. It’s January, one of those rare bone-cold days in Florida where no one wants to go outside, and the cafeteria smells like boiled green beans and bleach.
I keep my eyes on the clock above the vending machines.
Sixteen minutes until the bell. Sixteen minutes of pretending I don’t hear the boys at the other table snickering or see how they look at my jeans—probably too tight, the length too high-water, the style too outdated.
Sixteen minutes of swallowing everything I wish I could say because saying it would make it real.
Across from me, there’s an empty seat.
There’s always an empty seat.
Some days, I pretend someone’s about to fill it. Some friend who gets me—a version of me that’s less shy, talks louder, laughs easier, and knows how to want something without choking on it.
I never give him a name. That would make it harder to admit he’s not coming. Maybe he was never coming. Or perhaps he has already found someone else to sit with.
The boys at the other table burst into laughter. One slams a milk carton until it explodes, but the teachers either don’t notice or, if they do, choose not to.
I stare at the empty seat until the bell rings.
~
“Daniel?”
Naomi’s voice pulls me back in, and I blink.
Mateo is smirking over his curry. Naomi’s leaning in again, watching me.
I clear my throat and reach for my water. “Sorry. Zoned out for a second. What were you saying?”
Naomi raises an eyebrow. “I said, you’re lying to yourself if you think talking to him is a good idea. That you can pick right back up where you left off.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I say. “Kevin looked different. Like he’s moved on. And I have, too. I just—”
“Need closure?” Naomi cuts in. “Because baby, that’s the oldest excuse in the book.”
Mateo, still watching me, says quietly, “What would you even say?”
The glass sweats quietly between my hands, condensation pooling underneath. “Maybe…” I pause. “Well, I’m not sure. ”
Naomi’s voice lowers. “You’re not looking for answers. You’re chasing the version of you that disappeared the night you ran. And guess what? That Daniel? He’s gone.”
I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know what to say. Naomi’s not wrong.
But she’s not right either.
Mateo breaks the silence with a smile that’s almost kind. “Okay, but what if this version of Kevin has a boyfriend and a mortgage now?”
“Then I’ll say hi and go home.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “Bullshit.”
We let the quiet hang for a minute. Someone at another table laughs. A car honks its horn a block away. The scent of grilled scallions fills the air.
Mateo stands and pulls out another cigarette. Naomi watches him, incredulous. “Can you not for five minutes?”
He winks at her, then steps away toward the sidewalk.
As they bicker, a napkin drifts toward me on the breeze, and I catch it. Naomi says something about lung cancer and needing new friends. I click the pen left by the waitress and quietly write his name: Kevin Summers. Atlanta.
Naomi and Mateo walk ahead, still bickering—she about toxins, he not listening. I hang back under the string lights, their voices fading as I slip the napkin into my pocket like a promise I’m not ready to keep.
In front of me is the past. Somewhere up the block is the future.
And in between? Still me—still waiting for someone to fill the empty seat.
I follow slowly, unsure if I’m moving toward something real or just running from the quiet again.
Maybe I’ll go home. Perhaps I won’t. But I already know I won’t sleep.