Whispers of Doubt

Mark’s voice, usually a steady rumble, was laced with a new kind of caution as he met me for coffee at our old haunt, the diner with the cracked vinyl booths and the perpetual smell of burnt toast. Sunlight, bright and unforgiving, streamed through the grimy windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air between us. It felt like a spotlight on the precariousness of everything.

“John,” he began, stirring his coffee with a little too much force, the spoon clinking against the ceramic mug like a tiny alarm bell. “How are you… really?”

I forced a smile, a practiced contortion that felt as hollow as the promises I’d made myself a hundred times before. “I’m good, Mark. Better than good. Melissa and I, we’re… it’s good.”