i’m so empty to be so full of you

I sat at the corner table, watching the ice in my glass melt completely into the coffee until it was just a pale, watery blur. He was thirty minutes late, but I didn't even have the energy to be angry anymore. What made my stomach turn was realizing I couldn't even remember what I used to drink before he decided this iced americano was the only real way to have coffee.

I looked down at my phone, scrolling through nothing, and caught my reflection in the dark screen. I was sitting the exact way he sits when he is stressed, shoulders hunched forward and phone held in my left hand even though I am right-handed. It was sickening to see his body language completely occupying my body.

When the waiter came over to ask if I wanted to order food while waiting, I froze. My brain instantly churned through his food allergies, his demand for spicy food, and his absolute hatred of cilantro.

"Are you ready to order, or still waiting?" the waiter asked, tapping his pen against his pad.

"Oh, just... what do you recommend?" I asked.

"Well, what do you usually like?"

I stared at him. It was a normal question, but my mind was completely blank. I couldn't pull up a single craving that belonged to me. Everything in my head was just a bloated, suffocating catalogue of his habits, his likes, and his routine. I felt this sudden, bitter flash of disgust toward myself for having nothing of my own left.

By the time he finally walked through the door, offering a quick kiss on my cheek and a casual apology about traffic, he immediately started talking about his day. I listened, nodding at all the right cues, feeling that familiar, exhausting drain as my whole body was automatically adjusted to match his energy.

He slid into the booth across from me, barely taking a breath before diving into a long, aggressive story about a project proposal his team messed up. I watched the way his hand gestured wildly in the air, the exact way his forehead creased when he was annoyed, and I felt my own stomach knot up in response. His anger instantly became my burden to carry. I found myself performing the exact ritual he always demanded from me, softening my voice, offering the exact reassuring tone he liked, and asking the right follow-up questions about his boss just to keep him calm. It was exhausting, like playing a rehearsed role in a play I was so sick of starring in.

He leaned back, complaining about how exhausting his week had been, and then asked me how my day was. But before I could even take a breath, his eyes drifted to his phone. A notification popped up, and he picked it up to reply, still talking over his typing.

"Sorry, go on. You were saying?" he muttered, not looking up.

I opened my mouth to tell him about something small that happened earlier, but the words died in my throat. I was so tired. I was so sick of anticipating his reactions, so sick of curating every single word just so it wouldn't clash with his world. I realized I didn't even care to finish the sentence because I was already predicting how he would steer the conversation back to his own schedule anyway. I watched him laugh at a text message on his screen, entirely comfortable in the space we shared, completely unaware that I was suffocating right in front of him, completely unaware that he had slowly eaten away everything that used to be me.

After a few minutes of typing, he slapped his hands on the table, tossed enough cash to cover his drink, and stood up. He checked his watch, mentioning he needed to head out early because his friend was waiting, entirely forgetting that he had asked me about my day just moments ago. He threw a quick "Text me when you get home" over his shoulder, patted my shoulder twice, and walked right out the door.

I sat there alone at the table, surrounded by the noise of the cafe, realizing I hadn’t said a single word about myself the entire evening. He didn’t even notice. He left as quickly as he came, satisfied, relieved, completely unnoticed.

I looked down at the melting ice in my glass, and this heavy, hollow disgust settled deep in my chest. He filled every single corner of my mind, his endless stories, his loud stress, his rigid opinions, his suffocating voice. There was so much of him crammed inside me that I felt physically sick, yet there was zero room left for anything that belonged to me.

I was completely full of him, and I had never felt so empty in my entire life.