Drowning in Signal

The papaya sat on the counter for three days before she finally threw it out. Too ripe, then soft, then collapsing into itself — a perfect metaphor for what they'd become.

Mara stood at the kitchen sink, watching water spiral down the drain. Outside, the November rain painted gray streaks across the windows. Somewhere in the apartment, a cable news anchor droned about escalating tensions overseas, but she'd stopped listening days ago.

"You're like a zombie," David had said, the morning he left. "Just going through the motions."

She'd wanted to argue, to say that grief wasn't zombiehood, that the hollowed-out feeling in her chest was the price of loving someone for fifteen years and watching it unravel. But instead she'd said nothing. That was the problem, wasn't it? The silence between them had grown so vast she couldn't remember how to speak across it anymore.

Now she found herself doing something pathetic — checking his location through the shared cable account they'd forgotten to separate. A modern form of spying, banal and desperate. He was at the apartment they used to share on Tuesdays. Had he forgotten? Or was he punishing her?

Her phone buzzed. A notification from the grocery app: Buy papaya again?

Delete.

She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. The city below glittered with indifferent lights. Somewhere, David might be drinking coffee, maybe missing her, maybe finally sleeping through the night. Or maybe he'd already found someone new, someone who knew how to be alive instead of half-alive.

The cable box flickered, the signal briefly failing, then restored. White noise filled the room. Mara turned off the TV and stood in the sudden quiet, listening to the water still running in the sink, realizing she hadn't moved in ten minutes.

The zombie accusation stung most because it wasn't entirely wrong. She was moving through her days without really inhabiting them. But David had missed the crucial part: sometimes, when you're drowning, the first thing you lose is the ability to scream.

She turned off the water. Tomorrow, she'd call him. Tomorrow, she'd make a real choice. Tomorrow, she'd feel something.

Tonight, she'd just stand here until her feet went numb, watching the rain fall like the world was trying to wash itself clean.