**When Love Is Hidden in a Bowl of Soup**
He sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost detached. Across from him, she stood—her voice trembling, rising to a shout, words tumbling out like hailstones. It wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion. Anxiety. The kind of pain that builds for weeks before bursting out, raw and unfiltered.
She scolded him for lending money yet again to his mate—the same one who never rushed to pay it back. “Kind to everyone else, but our budget’s full of holes. The loan’s still hanging over us, Emily’s tuition won’t pay itself, and your mum needs that extension. Who else is there if not us?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She brought up the rug still waiting to go to the dry cleaner’s, the lampshade sitting in its box for a week. Each word was another drop in an unrelenting drizzle. But no—not anger. Just frayed nerves. As usual.
And he kept eating his soup. Silent. He was used to it. He knew she’d shout, then quiet down. It always happened.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper and easier on his stomach. Homemade soup, almost medicinal. She’d taken a half-day from work, been to the dentist, and still found time to cook. Same old routine. Same endless cycle.
Then something shifted. She stopped. Stilled. Looked at him differently—as if really seeing him for the first time in years. He’d aged. The golden curls were gone, replaced by a polished bald patch under the kitchen light. Wrinkles lined his neck, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dull. Sitting there. Eating. Silent. Swallowing not just soup but life itself.
Time had stamped him with all its weight—the worries, the sleepless nights, the unspoken aches. Life hadn’t been kind. It had taken his youth, his lightness, his laughter. Left behind only weariness. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been her boy. The one who brought her lilacs, strummed his guitar at bonfires, spun her on the pavement, kissed her temple, laughed like a schoolboy. They’d watched films curled up together, walked hand in hand through the park at dusk. Now? Grey. Stooped. Silent. And her? Shouting. Like strangers.
Then something twinged—deep behind her ribs. She didn’t see her husband just then. She saw her childhood sweetheart. The one she’d laughed with, waited for, left love notes for with little hearts.
She stepped closer. Wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressed her cheek to his back. Said nothing.
He set down the spoon. Gently took her hands in his. Kissed them. That was all. It was enough.
Because moments like these keep us anchored. When the boy and the girl—grey temples and all—take each other’s hands again. Keep walking. Together. Through bills and chores, through exhaustion and silence.
Because love is right here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these glances. In the quiet. In the habit of staying.
If it’s there, you can go on. You can move 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. Let there be love.
**Diary Entry, 14th March**
Today reminded me—even when the world wears you down, the smallest things keep love alive. A shared meal. A silent touch. Never underestimate the power of just *being* there.
