Citrus and Silence

Maya's iphone vibrated against the nightstand at 3:14 AM, its screen illuminating the apartment with an accusing blue glow. Another message from him. She didn't need to read it to know what it said—that he was sorry, that he loved her, that the distance between their bodies had become something neither of them could name anymore.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen, Barnaby—their golden retriever mix—thumping his tail hopefully against the floorboards. He thought she was reaching for his leash. Instead, she opened the refrigerator and stared at the papaya she'd bought three days ago, its flesh now soft and fermenting at the edges. Just like them. Something that started sweet and firm, now collapsing under its own weight, forgotten in the cold dark.

The vitamin D supplements sat on the counter in a cheerful orange bottle. Her doctor had prescribed them after she mentioned the fatigue, the way her bones seemed to ache when it rained. 'It's the winter,' he'd said, not hearing what she actually meant. She swallowed one dry, thinking about how she'd been trying to fix herself for months, trying to be someone who could stay, who could want the right things, who could look at her husband of seven years without seeing a stranger wearing familiar skin.

Marcus appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'Can't sleep?'

She held up the papaya like evidence. 'Going bad.'

He nodded, understanding none of it, and came to wrap his arms around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder, and she could smell the faint orange scent of the shampoo he'd started using—something new, something hers. They stood there while the refrigerator hummed its electric hum, while Barnaby sighed and resettled on his bed, while the city beyond their windows held its breath, and Maya closed her eyes and imagined that something inside her might still be sweet enough to save.