Cat Hair Season

The iPhone lit up at 3:14 AM, a ghostly rectangle in the darkness of Sarah's bedroom. She knew better than to look—knew that nothing good ever arrived at this hour—but her thumb was already sliding across the screen before her conscious mind could intervene.

The message was simple: "I can't do this anymore."

No punctuation. No explanation. Just five words that hollowed her out like a rotting pumpkin.

Sarah sat up, the sheets tangling around her legs. On the pillow beside her, a single strand of his hair curled against the white fabric—dark, slightly coarse, impossibly intimate. She'd watched him cut it himself last month, leaning over the bathroom sink with kitchen shears, the snipping sound wet and final in the morning silence. She'd gathered the clippings like they were holy relics, then flushed them days later when she realized what she was doing.

Now this single remaining hair seemed to mock her. Evidence of occupation, of intimacy, of a future that had dissolved into thin air.

Barnaby—his cat, now somehow her problem—jumped onto the bed with surgical precision. The orange tabby wound between Sarah's legs, purring like a small engine. She'd hated cats until James. Hadn't understood their particular brand of conditional love, their way of making you earn affection. Barnaby had taken six months to warm to her. Six months of being ignored, of having her ankles ambushed, of finding orange fur on every black sweater she owned.

Last week, James had joked that the cat loved her now. That Barnaby chose her lap over his. Sarah had thought it meant something permanent—that she'd been accepted into the ecosystem of his life.

She reached for her water glass on the nightstand, knocking over the forgotten orange she'd brought to bed three nights ago. It rolled across the duvet, a small sphere of failed intentions. She'd meant to eat it. Meant to do a lot of things.

The phone buzzed again. Another message: "I'm sorry."

Sarah picked up the orange, its skin dimpled and imperfect. She dug her thumbnail into the rind, releasing a burst of citrus that cut through the stale air of the bedroom—the smell of mornings that hadn't happened yet, of breakfasts they'd never share.

Barnaby butted his head against her hand, demanding. She scratched behind his ears, feeling the ridiculousness of it: grieving a man who'd left via text message while his cat purred against her chest, while the taste of orange hung sharp and bitter in her mouth.

Somehow, she would have to explain this to the cat.