The Other Side of the Room

I sat in the corner of the coffee shop, staring at the rain streaking down the window. The tea in front of me had gone cold, but I didn’t bother asking for another. The hum of conversation filled the room—soft laughter, the clinking of cups, chairs scraping against the floor—but none of it touched me.

The invitation had come last week, delivered with a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “It’ll be fun,” they had said. “Everyone’s going to be there.”

Everyone, I thought. Everyone except someone I wanted to see.

My phone buzzed on the table. I glanced at the screen: a message from Riya. “Why didn’t you come?”

I stared at the words for a moment before typing back, “There were people I hate, there were none I love. I do not enjoy such lonely social gatherings.”

Her reply came almost instantly. “You always say that. But maybe if you came, you’d find someone worth loving.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t about the people or the place. It was about the emptiness I felt when I was surrounded by faces that didn’t matter.

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x

I thought back to the last time I had gone to one of these gatherings. It had been Diwali, the lights strung up like constellations, the air thick with the scent of sweets and the sound of laughter. I had stood in a corner, a plate of food in my hand, watching the room move around me like a river I couldn’t step into.

I had tried to join a conversation once, offering a comment about the fireworks. The group had nodded politely before steering the discussion back to something else. I had felt like a ghost, present but unseen.

Later that night, someone had asked me why I looked so serious. “You should smile more,” they had said, as if that would fix everything.

The waiter approached my table, breaking my thoughts. He placed a fresh cup of tea in front of me, along with a small plate of biscuits.

“I didn’t order this,” I said.

“It’s on the house,” he replied with a kind smile. “You look like you could use it.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” I murmured finally.

He nodded and walked away, leaving me with the unexpected gift. I picked up a biscuit, taking a small bite. It wasn’t much, but it felt like someone had noticed me.

The phone buzzed again. “You could have at least told me you weren’t coming,” Riya’s message read.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I replied.

“You disappoint me more when you don’t show up,” she shot back.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “What’s the point of going somewhere if you feel more alone in the crowd than you do by yourself?”

This time, her response took longer. When it came, it was simple: “The point is to find the one person who makes you feel less alone.”

I thought about the stars and the moon, about the promises people make in moments of passion. I had once told someone I’d bring them the stars, but now I knew better. I couldn’t give anyone the stars, but I could sit with them under the sky, pointing out constellations. I couldn’t promise the moon, but I could walk with them under its light, sharing silences that didn’t feel heavy.

It wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about the little things—about being there, about noticing when someone needed a fresh cup of tea or a kind word.

The rain had stopped by the time I left the coffee shop. The air was crisp, the kind that made you breathe a little deeper. I walked home slowly, thinking about Riya’s words. Maybe she was right. Maybe I needed to stop waiting for someone to pull me out of the corner and start stepping into the room myself.

But not tonight. Tonight, I was content with the memory of the waiter’s kindness and the warmth of a biscuit shared in silence.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.