Martha.

3:49

He comes in every Thursday. He doesn't need to order anymore; I'll start making the Negroni. He watches the way I stir it, the slow circle of the spoon. The small routine holds his world together, at least for a little while. It's been almost a year without her. The pain doesn't surprise me anymore—it's started to look familiar. He carries it well. You can tell it's still there, but he's come to terms with the weight.

His shirt is always clean and pressed, his watch turned inward, his shoes always shining. The small things still matter to him—the ones he can control when the rest of life can't be fixed.

The bar moves around him—people laughing, glasses hitting the counter—but he stays quiet, steady, like he's holding on to a memory that keeps him company. Sometimes I catch myself saving the stool next to him, like we're both still waiting for her to walk through the door. He always brings a single red tulip. Just one. Places it on the bar like it's a quiet promise. And sometimes, when it's late and the bar is half asleep, I can almost hear her voice—soft, teasing, with that easy sense of humor—saying, You can do better. And I miss her too, somehow. I miss the way they were together. Some nights, it feels like he comes here not just to remember her, but to remember who he was when she was still around.

Martha was the kind of woman whose laughter could soften even the hardest days. Her sharp humor always won the room; she never hid what she was going through, and she refused to let it define her. Between appointments and long therapies, she still found time to ask about everyone else, to crack a joke, to make the world feel a little less cruel. Her fight wasn't loud—it was graceful, almost elegant.

The last time I saw her, she leaned closer and whispered, "He'll be back without me. Take care of him." I walked away, then came back, eyes red. She laughed like never before, shaking her head. "Put yourself together, idiot," she said—even then, she was the one holding the rest of us up.

"You ever think it gets easier?" I asked him today, because I couldn't hold it in anymore. He looked down at the glass, running his finger along the rim like he was playing a quiet tune.

"It doesn't," he said. "You just learn how to carry it better, and I think pain is the only thing that's real."