Not for Me

You were supposed to be different.

I picked you because you were different.

The voice wasn't loud, but I heard it

clearly, cutting through the ambient

noise of forks and conversation.

The other person said nothing.

The water glass in front of them

beaded with condensation, untouched.

My fork was halfway to my mouth

and I froze there, suspended,

listening to the silence after.

Not an argument. Something worse—

the sound of someone realizing

they've made a mistake that can't be

unmade, that's written in their bones now.

I put my fork down. The food

had gone cold without me noticing.

The voice came again, smaller:

You were supposed to be different.

I looked at my plate. Not for me,

I thought. This isn't for me.

But I was still listening.