Dead Battery

The charging cable lay frayed on Emma's nightstand, its wire exposed like a wounded artery. She'd been meaning to replace it for months, like she'd been meaning to reach out to Sarah, but life had a way of making the temporary permanent.

Her iPhone illuminated the dark bedroom at 2:47 AM—Sarah's Instagram story: a photo from a padel court, grinning with new friends, captioned "Finally found my tribe." Emma felt the familiar hollow ache in her chest, the kind that no amount of therapy or wine could properly address.

They'd been inseparable in college, the kind of friend who knows your coffee order and your deepest fears without asking. But Sarah had moved to Barcelona for work, and Emma had stayed in Seattle, and somewhere across the Atlantic and three years of unanswered messages, something fundamental had dissolved.

Emma watched the story again—Sarah's tan skin glowing, her laugh captured mid-motion, surrounded by people Emma didn't know. Padal. They'd joked about learning it together, back when they still made plans for a future that never materialized. Now Sarah was living Emma's deferred dreams with strangers.

The battery icon turned red. 3%.

Emma typed a message—"Miss your face"—then deleted it. Too desperate. Too late. She watched the screen darken, her reflection briefly visible in the glass: tired eyes, naked skin, the unmistakable wear of someone who'd been surviving rather than living.

The cable bit into her palm as she gripped it, a sharp pain that felt almost honest. She could charge her phone, keep herself connected to a world that had moved on without her, or she could let it die, if only for tonight.

Emma dropped the cable. Let the fucking thing die.

She turned over in bed, pressing her face into the pillow where she could almost smell Sarah's perfume from their last visit, three years ago. Outside, Seattle rain drummed against the window, relentless and indifferent, washing away nothing at all.