Between the Tables

By Yutzil Virgen [Second place]

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A horn blares somewhere behind me.

Metal against metal.

Voices shouting across the street.

The sound pulls me back into my body.

The light has turned green,

yet I remain still, hands resting on the steering wheel,

staring down a street filled with places I once called love.

Three restaurants sit on the same block.

From where I’m parked, I can see each of them

if I lean forward just enough.

It’s strange how every time I pass this street,

my mind returns to them–

as if my heart is still wandering between their tables,

trying to remember where it belongs.

For a long time, I thought one of them would be my place.

The first restaurant smelled like reheated lasagna

and cold coffee.

The lights were dim.

The air felt thick,

as if the room itself were holding its breath.

The chef rarely looked up when I walked in.

And when he did, his eyes searched the room

as though something were out of place.

Most of the time, I tried to make sure it wasn’t me.

So I spoke softly. Carefully.

As if every word might spill something fragile.

I watched the stove the way he did–

making sure nothing burned,

nothing boiled over.

If the kitchen stayed calm,

maybe the night would too.

But the air always felt heavy there.

One night, everything tipped over.

Not because of the food.

Because I was tired.

Tired of shrinking.

Tired of trying to be careful

in a place that never noticed how careful I was being.

When I walked out,

I paused outside the door,

half expecting it to swing open behind me.

It never did.

The second restaurant was the opposite.

Bright lights.

Loud music.

A place that felt alive the moment you stepped through the door.

The chef moved quickly, confidently,

like he belonged inside the chaos.

One night he grabbed my hand

and pulled me into the kitchen, laughing

as he showed me everything at once–

the flames, the counters, the noise.

For the first time in a long while,

I didn’t feel small.

I felt chosen.

So I didn’t fall in love slowly.

I fell all at once.

And then, just as quickly as it began,

it ended.

One day the doors were closed.

Chairs stacked on tables.

Lights off.

No explanation.

Just silence.

My heart was left behind,

like a plate forgotten on the counter.

When he left, something in me

didn’t cross the doorway.

It stayed there–

folded into the napkins,

swept beneath the floorboards,

caught somewhere between

the tables and their echoes.

Since then, love has never tasted quite the same.

Now there is a third restaurant.

The lights are warm.

The music quiet.

The kitchen hums instead of roars.

Nothing is burning here.

The chef moves slowly, carefully,

like someone who understands

that good things take time.

He never rushes me when I sit down.

Never pulls me into the kitchen

before I’m ready.

He simply waits.

And that patience scares me

more than chaos ever did.

Because here, I can breathe.

A horn blares again behind me.

The light has been green for a while now.

Three restaurants sit behind me

on the same street.

One where I starved trying to be enough.

One where I burned.

One where I am slowly learning

what stability tastes like.

My hands tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

Maybe before choosing another table,

I need to learn how to choose myself.

To protect what remains of my heart–

not to serve it again in a place

that doesn’t know how to hold it.

And when I finally sit down again,

I want it to be at a table

where love feels like breathing.

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Author Bio:

Yutzil Virgen is a student at EVC who writes poetry about emotions people often struggle to express such as love, grief, and feeling lost. Her work explores the process of facing difficult feelings while learning to grow and choose oneself. When she is not writing, she enjoys reading, listening to music, and appreciating the small moments that make life meaningful.