Delete

The cat stared at her from across the room, its yellow eyes unblinking. Max had belonged to him—had been his Christmas gift three years ago—and now the cat was a living artifact of a life that no longer existed. Sarah couldn't bring herself to return him. He'd said he didn't want the cat anyway, had said a lot of things in those final moments that made her wonder if she'd ever really known him at all.

She picked up her iphone, the screen lighting up with another notification she didn't want. Another group chat asking if she was coming to dinner. Another email from HR about the restructuring. Another subtle reminder that the world kept spinning even though hers had ground to a halt six weeks ago. She'd been avoiding her mother's calls, dodging her friends' texts, existing in a state of suspended animation between who she'd been and whoever she was becoming.

Running was supposed to help. That's what the articles said, what her therapist suggested, what everyone kept telling her. So she laced up her shoes at 5 AM, when the city was still gray and quiet, and ran until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out. She ran past the coffee shop where they'd had their first date, past the park where he'd proposed, past all the landmarks of a relationship that had decayed so slowly she hadn't noticed until it was already gone. The physical pain was a relief. It was tangible, manageable, honest.

This morning, her iphone buzzed in her pocket as she turned the corner toward the river. She almost stopped—old habit, the reflex to check, to respond, to be available. But she kept running. The notification would be there later, or it wouldn't. The world wouldn't end if she didn't know what someone needed from her right this second.

When she returned, breathless and sweating, Max was waiting by the door. He rubbed against her legs, purring, demanding breakfast. She filled his bowl, then stood in the kitchen with her phone in hand. His contact name was still there. His photo still smiled back at her. Three unread messages from December 23rd, the day he'd walked out with a suitcase and a mumbled apology about not being ready for forever.

She opened the messages. Read them again for the twentieth time. Felt the same hollow ache in her chest, the same question of what she could have done differently, what she'd missed, what she'd been blind to. Then she pressed delete. All three messages gone, like they'd never existed. The contact name vanished. The photo disappeared.

The cat finished eating and jumped onto the counter, head butting her hand. She scratched behind his ears, felt his rumbling purr against her palm. Some things stayed. Some things left. Most of it was beyond her control anyway.

Sarah set her iphone on the counter and turned on the coffee maker. The machine hissed and sputtered, filling the kitchen with the smell of something new beginning.