The Last Chair by the Window

I always chose the chair by the window, even when there were better seats. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about watching people leave.

The café sat at the edge of the old bus terminal, half-forgotten like the cracked tiles under its tables. Travelers came here not because the coffee was good, but because it was close. Close to departures. Close to endings.

I started coming after my father died. Not immediately. Grief needs time to learn your habits before it settles in. One day, without planning it, I walked in and sat down. The chair by the window was empty, like it had been waiting.

Every morning after that, I came at the same time. Ordered the same thing. Black coffee, no sugar. The waitress noticed before I did.

“You’re back again,” she said once, smiling like it was a good thing.

I nodded. Talking felt unnecessary.

From my seat, I could see the buses pull in and out. People hugging too tightly. Others not hugging at all. Some cried openly. Some stared at their phones like nothing important was happening.

I tried to imagine where they were going. I wondered if leaving ever felt clean. Like you could just stand up, walk away, and not carry anything with you.

My father used to say leaving was easy. Staying was the hard part. He stayed in the same job for thirty-two years. Same house. Same routine. When he got sick, he stayed quiet too. By the time he left, there was nothing left to say.

One morning, a woman sat across from me without asking. That surprised me. People don’t usually choose occupied tables when empty ones exist.

“You mind?” she asked, already sitting.

I shook my head.

She looked tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Her bag was open, spilling papers and a small framed photo. A boy, maybe eight years old, smiling with his front teeth missing.

“My son,” she said, noticing my eyes. “He hates buses.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.

“He thinks they steal people,” she continued. “Like if you’re not careful, they’ll take you somewhere you don’t belong.”

She laughed softly, but her hands were shaking.

“Is he traveling with you?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “He’s staying.”

That was all she said about it.

She started coming every day after that. Same time. Same chair. We didn’t talk much, but it wasn’t awkward. Some people understand silence the way others understand jokes.

One day, she didn’t show up.

I noticed too quickly. Kept looking at the door, pretending I wasn’t.

The waitress brought my coffee and hesitated. “Your friend hasn’t been coming,” she said.

“She’s not my friend,” I replied automatically.

But it sounded wrong the moment I said it.

The next morning, I arrived early. Her chair was still empty. I watched a bus pull away, leaving behind a man standing alone with a ticket in his hand. He looked confused, like he had missed something important.

I understood that look.

A week later, the woman came back. She looked lighter. Or maybe emptier. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

“I left him,” she said, sitting down.

My chest tightened. “Your son?”

“No,” she said. “His father.”

She stirred her coffee even though she hadn’t added anything to it. “I stayed for years because leaving felt cruel. Then I realized staying was teaching my son the wrong lesson.”

I nodded. My father’s voice echoed in my head. Staying is the hard part.

“What lesson?” I asked.

“That love shouldn’t feel like waiting at a bus stop forever.”

We sat quietly after that.

Later, as she stood to leave, she paused. “You always sit by the window,” she said. “Why?”

I thought about it. About my father. About all the people leaving.

“So I can remind myself,” I said, “that not everyone who leaves is running away.”

She smiled. “And not everyone who stays is brave.”

After that day, I moved to a different chair. Not because the window lost its meaning, but because I finally understood it.