The clink of glasses at the next booth—

The clink of glasses at the next booth—

her hand was shaking. The truth

beginning to fracture,

"I'm leaving," she said, a rupture

in the careful evening.

He didn't move. The evening

held its breath. His hands

stayed flat on the table. Strands

of light caught in the wine glass.

The moment began to pass—

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Three words, masked:

"Yes. No. I have to."

Three answers that became true

in the same moment, and I sat

there with this secret, flat

against my chest, something

I wasn't supposed to know, something

that would follow me home,

that would make my own home

feel smaller, more fragile,

more likely to fail.

In the parking lot, I lost

the thread of my own life, the cost

of knowing what I shouldn't,

of understanding what I couldn't

unsee, couldn't unknow,

couldn't let go.