Unsent – #3: The Chair by the Window

“Some waiting becomes a habit. Some habits become a home you didn’t mean to build.”

The chair had been there for years.

It sat by the window, slightly angled, catching the soft light of every evening like a patient prayer. Anyone who visited assumed it was just furniture—placed thoughtfully, aesthetically. No one asked why it was always empty.

No one asks about the spaces we keep sacred.

She placed it there for a reason. Every evening, just before sunset, she opened the curtains and let the light spill in—golden, forgiving, full of possibility. She never sat on the chair herself. Instead, she stood nearby, pretending to be busy. Watering plants that didn’t need water. Arranging books that were already straight. Wiping surfaces that hadn’t gathered dust.

The chair was reserved.

She told herself she wasn’t waiting. Not exactly. Waiting felt too vulnerable, too exposed. So she called it hope instead.

It was just comforting to imagine that one day, someone might walk in, notice the chair, and sit down as if they had always belonged there. As if the empty space had been holding their shape all along.

Sometimes she imagined conversations. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind of simple, sacred things that make a life feel lived:

“How was your day?”
“You look tired. Come here.”
“Stay a little longer. Please.“

Seasons changed outside the window. The light shifted—warm amber to cool silver to soft gold again. Life moved forward, loud and insistent. The chair remained untouched.

She became an expert at loving someone who wasn’t there.

One evening, after a particularly long day—the kind that empties you out—she felt tired of standing. The pretending felt heavier than usual, like carrying groceries up too many flights of stairs.

Without thinking too much about it, she sat down.

“Sometimes the most profound act of love isn’t holding the door open. It’s finally walking through it yourself.”

The chair was comfortable. Isn’t that strange? All this time, and she’d never known.

She leaned back and looked out the window. The world looked the same—same street, same sky, same fading light—yet something felt profoundly different.

Sitting there, she realized how much time she had spent leaving space for someone who never arrived. And how little space she had left for herself.

“I’ve been waiting for permission,” she whispered to the empty room. “But no one’s coming to give it.”

She stayed there until the light faded completely. That night, she moved the chair closer to the table—just a few inches, but it felt like miles.

The next morning, she placed a book on it. Her book. The one she’d been meaning to read.

By evening, it had become just another chair—useful, lived in, real. She still liked sitting by the window. She just no longer waited.

Because sometimes, the most profound act of love isn’t holding the door open.

It’s finally walking through it yourself.

“The greatest romance of your life might just be the one you have with your own becoming.”

This Valentine’s Day, ask yourself:
Is there a place in your life you’ve been leaving empty?
What if you finally sat down?