Title: The Last Supper

The dinner table was set for three.

Chicken roast with rosemary, mashed potatoes shaped into perfect little hills, wine so red it could be mistaken for spilled secrets.

Elena chewed quietly, her fork scraping against the porcelain plate. Across from her, her husband, Raj, buttered his bread with the slow precision of a man preparing for war. Their daughter, Mira, ten and too perceptive for her age, sat between them—eyes flicking from one parent to the other, like watching a tennis match where no one served.

No one said a word.

But everything was loud.

The silence screamed of last night’s phone call Elena hadn’t meant to overhear. Of the name she didn’t recognize. Of Raj’s voice—lower, softer, the way he used to speak only to her.

The knife in her hand didn’t tremble, but her chest did. The sound of chewing, of swallowing, of glasses being lifted and set down—these were the only survivors of the battlefield.

Mira reached for the salt.

Raj passed it.

Their fingers didn’t touch, but Mira’s eyes narrowed. She sensed it, too—the change in weather without a forecast.

At last, Raj looked up. Met Elena’s gaze.

He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. Just once. Barely a breath.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of her.

He nodded, silently.

The conversation happened in that look. Regret. Guilt. A plea. A refusal.

Mira didn’t understand the language, but she understood the silence.

She excused herself from the table, her plate half-full. Neither parent stopped her.

They kept eating. Saying nothing.

Saying everything.

✍️ Written by Suprobhat Bhattacharyya
#WritersCafe #DailyPrompt #FlashFiction @WritersCafe

Admin note:

💖 thanking Suprobhat (the contributing channel memeber) for this write-up excercise.