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Hollow

Fletcher stood in the middle of his kitchen, the microwave humming as it reheated leftover stir-fry he barely remembered making. Another Friday night and the silence in his apartment was so complete it felt physical. He glanced at the TV, where a half-watched documentary still waited, and the unopened bottle of wine he'd optimistically bought "just in case" sat untouched on the counter.

He used to love his solitude. It meant freedom. No compromises. No explanations. He could work late, sleep in, fly to Chicago for a conference without a second thought. But tonight, something felt... off. The quiet wasn’t peaceful tonight.

It was empty.

He didn’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was the way his friend Alec had casually mentioned going home to someone. Or maybe it was the look the barista gave her partner when she handed him coffee - like she'd just handed him her whole damn heart in a cup. Or maybe it was just the mounting weight of all the "maybes" in his life.

He realized, in that moment, standing barefoot on his cold tile floor, with the microwave beeping behind him, that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him in a way that was truly intimate. He wasn't a monk, by any means. He was no stranger to physical touch - hands pulling off a shirt, nails digging into his back. But when was the last time he felt a palm against his cheek? Fingers brushing his arm in public just because?

The ache caught him off guard. He'd never needed anyone. Or so he thought.

But now, almost forty, the freedom that once felt like power suddenly felt like exile. He wanted love. Not the whirlwind kind, not fireworks, not drama. Just someone to share things with. A text at lunch. A knowing glance across a room. A hand reaching for his in the dark. The love that he watched his parents settle into.

He didn't say it out loud, but the truth pulsed in him like a heartbeat:

I don’t want to do the rest of this alone.