Amidst the festivities like Christmas and New Year, cheers are aplenty for most people. Food, drinks and conversations flow with ease. Still, what we truly yearn for is connection with people -- to be understood, accepted and loved as a person without being judged.
The following short story and image are generated using ChatGPT for your refreshing.
Roland was standing in line outside the Japanese restaurant, phone dimmed in his hand, watching numbers crawl forward. The mall was busy in the familiar, unremarkable way of a weekday afternoon—people drifting, escalators sighing, time moving without urgency.
When he turned slightly to make room for someone behind him, he heard his name spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in decades.
“Roland?”
He looked up. Stacey stood there, hair shorter now, eyes gentler, carrying a quiet steadiness that hadn’t been there in school. For a moment, they only looked at each other, surprised by how recognisable the other still was.
“It’s been… a long time,” he said.
She smiled. “Too long.”
They began with small, careful updates. Children grown. Parents older. Life fuller and thinner in unexpected places. When Roland’s number was called, the invitation came naturally, as if it had been waiting to be spoken.
“Would you like to join me for lunch?”
Stacey paused only a heartbeat. “I’d like that.”
They were seated by the window. Outside, light filtered through glass and steel, softened by the afternoon. They ordered without fuss, then sat with tea warming their hands.
“I’m divorced,” Stacey said quietly, not as a disclosure but as a fact.
Roland nodded. “Me too.”
There was relief in saying it out loud, in not having to explain.
Stacey spoke first, slowly, as if choosing which memories to lift into the light.
“I met my ex-husband at work. He was funny—effortlessly so. He made the long days feel lighter.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “We loved walking by the beach at night, just talking. And cooking on weekends, even when the food didn’t turn out right.”
She paused. “He was kind. Truly kind. That was what I loved most.”
Roland listened, attentive and unhurried.
“They weren’t bad years,” she continued. “But over time, we stopped sharing the small things. We talked about logistics, not feelings. Somewhere along the way, we became careful instead of close.”
She looked down at her cup. “Love didn’t disappear. It just… stopped growing.”
Roland took a breath before speaking, surprised by how ready he was.
“I met my ex-wife through a friend. She was thoughtful, very organised. She made plans feel safe.” He smiled, a little wistfully. “We used to take long drives with no destination. We liked old movies, late suppers, the idea that life could be built carefully.”
He traced a finger along the rim of his cup.
“I thought if I worked harder, provided more, everything else would follow. But she wanted presence, not protection. And I didn’t realise how quiet I’d become.”
They sat with that truth between them, not heavy, just honest.
The conversation drifted to the years after.
Stacey spoke of the loneliness first—the evenings after her daughter moved out, the silence that felt louder than any argument.
“There were days I questioned everything,” she said. “Whether I had failed. Whether I had stayed too long or left too early.”
She found her way back slowly. Long walks. Reading again. Learning how to sit with herself without judgement.
“I didn’t rush healing. I just let the days do their work.”
Roland nodded. “For me, it was routine. Cooking for one. Running in the mornings. Letting myself feel sad without fixing it.”
He smiled gently. “I learned that grief isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s proof that something mattered.”
By the time their plates were cleared, the afternoon light had shifted. Neither felt the need to hurry.
They didn’t speak of the future directly. They didn’t need to. What passed between them was quieter than hope, but just as steady—a shared understanding of love that had once been real, pain that had been endured, and a self that had survived both.
As they stood to leave, Stacey said, “It’s nice to be able to talk about this without explaining myself.”
Roland met her gaze. “It is.”
They exchanged numbers, not as a promise, but as an openness.
As they stepped back into the moving crowd of the mall, both felt something gentle unfold—not a spark, not yet—but a warmth. The kind that comes when two people meet not to fill a void, but to acknowledge that they’ve made it through, and that life, even after loss, still has room for connection.
Thank you for reading Daily Refreshing.
