He sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost detached. She stood across from him, her voice trembling, breaking into shouts, her words tumbling out like hail. No, it wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion. It was worry. It was the kind of pain that builds for weeks before spilling out, raw and unforgiving.
She scolded him for lending money again to his mate—the same one who never seemed to pay it back. “Kind to everyone, but at home, it’s holes in the budget. The loan’s still hanging over us, Emma’s on a paid course, Mum’s place needs fixing—who else is going to help if not us?” she snapped, not waiting for an answer. She brought up the rug still waiting to go to the cleaners, the light fixture left in its box for a week. All of it like a steady drizzle, drop by drop. Still, not anger—just frayed nerves. As usual.
And he drank his soup. In silence. He was used to it. He knew she’d shout, then quieten. It had happened before.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper, and easier on the stomach. Homemade soup was almost medicinal. She’d taken time off, been to the dentist, and still managed to cook. Everything ordinary. Everything the same.
But then something shifted. She stopped. Fell quiet. Looked at him differently—as if seeing him for the first time in years. He’d aged. The golden curls were gone, replaced by a smooth bald patch under the light. Wrinkles crept down his neck, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dull. Sitting there. Eating. Silent. Swallowing not just soup, but life itself.
Time had marked him. All the sleepless nights, the unspoken worries. Life hadn’t been gentle—it had taken youth, lightness, laughter, and left only weariness. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been her sweetheart. The one who brought her lilacs, strummed a guitar by bonfires, spun her on the pavement, kissed her temple, laughed like a boy. They’d watched films curled up together, walked through the park at dusk, hands clasped… And now? He was grey, stooped, quiet. And her? Shouting. Like a stranger.
Then something twisted deep inside her. Behind her ribs. Suddenly, she didn’t see her husband—she saw her boy. The one she’d laughed with, waited for, left little notes for, dotted with hearts.
She stepped closer. Wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressed her cheek to his back. Silent.
He set down the spoon. Gently took her hands in his. Kissed them. That was all. It was enough.
Because moments like these are what keep us going. When the boy and the girl—even with silver in their hair—take each other’s hands again. And keep walking. Together. Through chores and fatigue, through bills and light fixtures, through grudges and silences.
Because love is here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these quiet glances. In the habit of standing side by side.
If it’s there—you can keep living. You can keep moving forward. Together. Holding on so time’s wind doesn’t blow you apart. The same wind that takes everyone, sooner or later.
But until then… let there be soup. Let there be hands to hold. Let there be love.
