The Empty Chair

She never moved it.

Every morning, Éloïse got up, made tea, cut two slices of bread, spread jam on one, honey on the other—just how he liked it—and set everything on the table. Opposite her: the chair turned toward the window. The one he always sat in.

Mathias was quiet in the mornings. He stared out at the passersby while sipping his coffee, added too much sugar, got lost in his thoughts. She used to tease him, asking where he was traveling so early. Sometimes he answered. Other times, he simply smiled—that slight, apologetic curve of his lips that meant, not here right now.

He was like that.

And now, he wasn’t here at all.

Éloïse sipped the lukewarm tea. Silence had thickened since the funeral. Not the silence of grief—but the silence of vanishing. As if the world had held its breath the moment the coffin touched earth, and hadn’t exhaled since.

So she spoke.

“You want some bread? Jam. You always preferred jam. Always.”

She offered the slice toward the empty chair. Then gently set it down. And laughed.

A dry, awkward laugh. Like a hiccup. But she did the same the next day.

And the next.

He never answered.

But he was there.

She could feel him when she came home. When she unpacked groceries. Watched a film. Fell asleep on the pillow he used. His scent was long gone from the sheets, but something else remained. A pressure. A presence.

So she talked to him. Asked how he was. Shared memories. Read him book passages. He never replied, of course, but sometimes she thought she heard him breathing—or was it the wind?

She called him “the other Mathias.” Not the real one. Not the one from the world. The one from here. The one who stayed.

He became her refuge. A breakwater. A memory made soft and just out of focus, but still solid.

One day, folding laundry, she spoke aloud in the living room.

“Do you think I should reply to Clément’s text? He wants to see me.”

Silence. Her gaze drifted toward the chair.

“You didn’t like Clément, right? Thought he talked too much.”

She waited, as if searching the silence for approval.

“But I need someone to talk to now. You see that, don’t you? Someone who talks back.”

She frowned. Corrected herself.

“I mean… someone else.”

She didn’t go to the meeting.

When her sister came to dinner, Éloïse moved the chair. Just a little. Not far.

“Do you eat alone every night now?”

Éloïse nodded. Her sister pressed:

“You know this… this habit—it’s not helping you move on.”

Éloïse looked down at her plate.

It wasn’t a habit. It was him. Or almost him.

The imaginary friend didn’t take over her life. He didn’t stop her from living. He was just there, quietly, always at the edges. Like a loyal dog. A hum in the air. She no longer sank into raw grief. She circled its edge, guided by the blur of a man who, sometimes, still made her laugh.

Until one night, everything shifted.

She dreamt.

In the dream, she stood in the kitchen. He was sitting in the chair. Silent, as always. She talked to him. Made tea. All was calm.

Then he stood up. Looked at her. And backed toward the door without a word.

She reached out.

“Wait. Stay.”

He kept moving. Crossed the threshold. The door shut behind him.

She woke up screaming.

The chair seemed emptier than usual the next morning.

She made just one slice of toast.

That day, she answered Clément. They met at a café near the canal. He talked—a lot. But he also listened.

Back home, she opened the door gently. Dropped her bag. Walked toward the kitchen. And froze.

The chair had moved.

Just a little. Barely anything. A slight turn, facing her now.

She laughed.

“All right. You missed me?”

Then, softer:

“You know you’re not really him, don’t you? You never moved. I made you like this.”

The chair stayed still.

A few days later, she received a job offer in Montréal. A position she would’ve turned down when Mathias was alive. Too far. Too cold. Too much.

She hesitated. For three nights.

On the fourth morning, she sat across from the chair.

“If I go,” she asked, “will you come with me?”

Nothing.

But this time, she heard the silence differently.

He wasn’t a choice. He was a crutch. A hiding place.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Then stood, pushed the chair back under the table—quietly, as if tucking away something sacred.

“Thank you for staying. But it’s time for you to go.”

She left for Montréal in the spring. Brought a sweater he had loved. A photo in her wallet. That was all.

She no longer spoke aloud in empty rooms. She didn’t need to.

But sometimes, seeing a shadow in a window, or hearing a familiar melody, she’d turn her head slightly, as if someone were about to speak.

And then she’d smile.

He wasn’t there.

But he was never truly gone.