Digital Decay

The iPhone sat on her nightstand like a dormant accusation, its screen cycling through photos of him like a cruel slideshow she'd forgotten to disable. Three months since he'd walked out with his half-packed duffel, leaving behind nothing but the smell of his cologne and a cabinet full of vitamins she couldn't bring herself to throw away.

Sarah picked up the phone, her thumb hovering over his contact. One tap. That's all it would take. The palm of her hand was sweaty against the smooth glass, her heart hammering an irregular rhythm against her ribs. She'd spent the morning peeling oranges, their citrus scent flooding the small apartment, trying to outrun the memory of how he used to bring her fresh-squeezed juice in bed on Sundays.

The vitamins were his idea—D for depression, B12 for energy, magnesium for sleep. A chemical intervention for the malaise that had settled over their relationship like fog. She swallowed them anyway, a small act of faith in something she'd stopped believing in.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from some dating app she'd downloaded on a whiskey-fueled Tuesday. 'Someone likes you!' The screen illuminated his face in her lock screen wallpaper, both of them squinting against the sun, his arm around her shoulders, their smiles genuine.

That was the palm tree incident in Mexico. They'd been drunk on cheap tequila and cheaper hope, discussing whether to get married or break up, as if those were the only two options. Now she understood there was a third: staying together until the rot became undeniable.

Sarah deleted the notification. Then the app. Then his contact info. The orange rind sat in a bowl on her counter, already beginning to dry at the edges. Tomorrow she would throw out the vitamins. Tonight, she would sleep, phone-free, dreamless, for the first time in ninety days.