He sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost vacant. She stood across from him, her voice trembling, breaking into shouts, words tumbling out like hailstones. No, it wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion. Anxiety. That deep ache that builds for weeks, then spills out, raw and unpolished.
She scolded him for lending money again to his mate—the one who never rushed to pay it back. *”You’re kind to everyone else, but at home, it’s just holes in the budget. The loan’s overdue, Emily’s tuition is due, your mum needs the roof fixed, and who else will do it?”* She didn’t wait for an answer. She brought up the rug still waiting to go to the cleaners, the chandelier sitting in its box for a week. Each grievance was another drop in the downpour. But still—not anger. Just nerves stretched thin. As always.
And he ate his soup. Silent. Unmoved. He knew she’d shout, then quieten. It had happened before.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper, easier on the stomach. Homemade soup, like a remedy. She’d taken the day off, seen the dentist, still found time to cook. The usual cycle.
Then something shifted. She stopped. Looked at him differently—like she was seeing him for the first time in years. He’d aged. The golden curls were gone, just a smooth, shiny scalp under the kitchen light. Wrinkles crept down his neck, shoulders hunched, his eyes dull. Sitting. Eating. Silent. Swallowing not just the soup, but life itself.
Time had marked him. All the nights awake, the unspoken pains. Life doesn’t spare anyone—takes youth, lightness, laughter. Leaves weariness. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been *her* boy. The one who brought her lilacs, strummed his guitar by bonfires, spun her on the pavement, kissed her temple, laughed like he’d never stop. They’d watched films curled together, walked hand in hand through the park at dusk… And now? Grey, stooped, wordless. And her? Shouting. Like a stranger.
Then something clenched. 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.
She stepped closer. Wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. Pressed her cheek to his back. Said nothing.
He set the spoon down. Took her hands in his. Kissed them. That was all. Enough.
Because it’s moments like these that keep us here. When the boy and the girl—streaks of grey at their temples—take each other’s hands again. And keep walking. Together. Through the grind, the exhaustion, the debts and unbuilt chandeliers, the quiet hurts.
Because love is here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these glances. In the silence. In the habit of staying.
If it’s there, you can live. You can go forward. Together. Holding fast so time’s wind doesn’t blow you apart. That same wind that comes for everyone, sooner or later.
But until then… let there be soup. Let there be hands. Let there be love.
