He sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost distant. Across from him, she stood with a trembling voice, sharp words tumbling out like hailstones. But it wasn’t anger—just exhaustion. The kind of pain that builds for weeks before spilling over, raw and unfiltered.
She scolded him for lending money again to his mate—the one who never seemed to pay it back. “You’re generous with everyone else, but at home, the budget’s full of holes. The loan’s overdue, Emily’s tuition isn’t cheap, and your mum’s place needs repairs—who else will help if not us?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She mentioned the rug still sitting by the door, waiting for the cleaners, and the light fixture in its box for a week now. It was all just drizzle, drop by drop. Not anger, just frayed nerves. As usual.
And he kept sipping his soup. Silent. Used to it. He knew she’d shout, then stop. It had happened before.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper and easier on his stomach. Homemade soup was almost medicinal. She’d taken time off for the dentist and still managed to cook. Everything the same. Everything in its cycle.
But then something shifted. She went quiet. Stilled. 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 lined his neck, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dull. Just sitting there. Eating. Silent. Swallowing not just soup but life itself.
Time had marked him. All the sleepless nights, the unspoken worries. Life takes the youth, the laughter, the lightness—leaving only weariness. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been her boy. The one who brought lilacs, strummed a guitar by the campfire, spun her on the pavement, kissed her temple, laughed like a kid. They’d curled up watching films, walked hand in hand through the park at dusk. Now? Grey. Stooped. Silent. And her? Shouting. Like a stranger.
Then something twisted inside her. Deep, behind her ribs. She didn’t see her husband—just her boy. 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. No words.
He set down the spoon. Took her hands gently in his. Kissed them. That was enough.
Because moments like these are what keep us here. When the boy and the girl—even with silver in their hair—take each other’s hands again. And keep walking. Together. Through bills and light fixtures, through silence and worn-out patience.
Because love—it’s right here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these glances. In the quiet. In the habit of being side by side.
If it’s there, you can keep going. Forward. Together. Holding on so life’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.
