Pho for One

He eats pho alone the way some people pray, quietly, with small rituals that make the world behave. The shop is narrow and bright, a strip of light in a street that never fully cools. Fans push warm air in circles, the kind that smells like star anise, wet basil, and the sweet edge of simmered bones.

He chooses the same seat every time, back to the wall, face to the door, not because he’s afraid, but because he likes knowing what enters. A man with a cigarette cough sits outside and never comes in. A kid taps a coin on the table like he’s testing reality. The cook shouts orders in a voice that could cut sugarcane.

The bowl arrives steaming, a small weather system. The broth is clear, almost polite, but it carries the whole history of patience. He lifts the chopsticks, separates the noodles, releases them like white riverweed. He adds lime, just enough to sharpen the day. He tears the basil with his fingers instead of cutting it, as if tearing keeps the scent honest.

He watches the street through the doorway. Motorbikes thread past like needles. A woman in a conical hat balances a basket of mangoes. Someone laughs too loud, then disappears. In the reflection of the soup’s surface, his face looks older than it feels, as if the steam is translating him into another version.

He tells himself he is not lonely. He is simply unaccompanied. There’s a difference. Loneliness is a room that locks from the outside. This is a room he chose, with a bowl in front of him and the sound of broth being ladled like a soft applause.

He slurps, not rudely, but without apology. The heat clears his nose, then his thoughts. Between bites, he remembers a voice saying his name the way it used to be said, tender and impatient. He doesn’t chase the memory. He lets it pass, the way you let a motorbike pass when it’s too close, steady hands, eyes forward.

He finishes the broth last. That’s important. It feels like closing a door gently, so nothing in the house wakes up.