She always sat on the left side of the couch. The bad cushion. The one with the broken spring that jabbed into her ribs, the one where the cold draft slithered in through the window, the one where the light from the lamp didn’t quite reach.
It wasn’t a conscious decision—just something she did. In the same way, she always lets others have the better seat, the bigger portion, the last word. The same way she answered texts before anyone had the chance to wonder if she would. The same way she made sure everyone else was comfortable, even as she folded herself into smaller, quieter spaces.
And it wasn’t a big deal. Just a seat. Just a habit. Just another unspoken rule she had built around herself.
Then one night, she came home in silence. No one to fill the space. No one to sit next to. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and walked toward the couch. Out of instinct, she started to sit—left side, like always—but something made her stop.
The right cushion was empty. It had always been empty.
She looked at it for a long time, longer than she should have. The air felt thick, heavy, like the kind of quiet that lingers after someone has left the room. But no one had left. No one had been there to begin with.
And yet, the echo of them remained.
She swallowed hard, hearing it now—the soft reverberation of years spent in the background, the quiet hum of her own needs left unanswered, the faint, aching whisper of a question she had never dared to ask: When was the last time I chose myself?
Her hands trembled as she lowered herself onto the good cushion. The warm side. The one where she didn’t have to brace for discomfort.
She sat there, waiting for the guilt to creep in, waiting for the urge to move. But all she felt was the space around her—open, unfamiliar, and finally, finally hers.
And for the first time, the echo in her heart was not someone else’s voice.
It was her own.
