Charging

The hotel room was silent except for the cat's persistent scratching at the door. Not my cat—Sarah's. She'd be at the shelter by now, if Sarah followed through. I pictured the cat's confused face, the carrier, the final walk to the car. That cat had slept between us for seven years.

My iphone lay on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages. Sarah had blocked me hours ago. The cable snaked across the cheap carpet, plugged into the wall beside the bed—my only tether to a world that kept turning without me. I watched the charging indicator pulse. Battery: 12%. Like my marriage.

The fruit basket on the desk held a single orange, bright against the muted beige of everything else. I peeled it slowly, the citrus scent cutting through the stale air of room 214. My hands shook. Seven years dissolved into an orange peel, into a charging cable, into a cat I'd never touch again.

At work tomorrow, I'd pretend nothing had changed. I'd answer emails about quarterly projections and team synergy. But something fundamental had shifted. The architecture of my life—its walls, its rooms, its foundations—had turned out to be made of different things than I'd believed. Not love. Not trust. Just habit, and the fear of being alone in a hotel room with an orange and a dying phone.

The scratching stopped. The cat was gone, truly. I ate a section of the orange. It was bitter. I plugged in the iphone and lay back on the pillow that smelled like someone else's hair.

Tomorrow I'd buy a new cable. Tomorrow I'd find an apartment. Tomorrow I'd become someone who didn't need a cat to feel real. Tonight, I watched the battery percentage climb. 13%. 14%. The only thing getting stronger in room 214.