Charging

Maya sat at the gate terminal, her palm pressed against the cold glass wall as if she could somehow will the plane to stay on the ground. Eight years of marriage, reduced to a single carry-on and a gate pass he'd never use.

She touched the tangled hair at her neck—she'd stopped wearing it up the way he liked months ago. Another small rebellion she'd catalogued in her mind, alongside the unreturned calls and the dinners eaten alone. He'd always said her hair looked wilder down, more alive. Now it was just another thing he'd never see again.

Her iPhone vibrated. His name lit up the screen for the third time that hour. She watched it ring, the motion mesmerizing, like watching a house burn from a safe distance. He was probably standing at security, panicked, realizing she wasn't coming. Let him wonder. Let him feel what she'd felt every night he'd chosen the office over their bed.

An orange peel lay on the floor next to her shoe, someone's abandoned breakfast. The scent drifted up—bright, acidic, impossible. It was the fruit he'd always bought her when she was sick, the one thoughtful gesture in a desert of neglect. She remembered their first apartment, how he'd peeled oranges for her in bed when she had the flu, his fingers sticky and gentle, making her believe that tenderness could be a permanent state. That was the thing about grief: it made everything sharp, even fruit.

The charging cable from her bag frayed at the end, wires exposed like a wound. She'd meant to replace it. They'd both meant to replace so many things—the burned-out bulb in the hallway, the silence at dinner, the trust he'd spent like currency and never replenished. Some things you could plug in and fix. Others just died.

"Final boarding call," the agent announced over the PA.

Maya stood up. She left the phone ringing on the seat, unanswered. Some connections weren't worth keeping alive, even when they still had power left in them.