Fox in the Orange Light

I slice through the papaya's center, its orange flesh weeping onto the counter. Three weeks since Elena left, and I'm still eating the tropical fruit she introduced me to—this stubborn remnant of who we were together.

The iPhone sits on the counter like a dormant organ. I haven't touched it in days. What's the point? Every notification used to make my heart quicken. Now the silence is heavier than any text could be.

"I need a fox," she told me once, watching me navigate office politics. "Someone who knows when to show his teeth and when to play dead." I never knew if it was a compliment or an insult.

Through the kitchen window, the actual fox appears—the same one I've been feeding since winter. He moves through the overgrown backyard like an apology. Russet coat, eyes that understand hunger. I toss him a papaya wedge. He catches it mid-air.

I'm wearing the orange dress shirt Elena hated. "You look like a traffic cone," she'd say, smoothing the collar anyway. I kept it because she loved me even when I looked ridiculous. That's what I miss most—being seen.

The phone buzzes. A calendar reminder: "Couples' therapy — 4 PM."

The fox finishes the papaya and looks at me through the glass. Neither of us belongs here anymore.

I delete the event. Delete her contact. Delete the seven hundred photos of us.

Outside, the sunset burns orange and impossible. The fox watches as I lift the phone, hovering over the trash can.

My fingers tremble.

The fox turns away, tail disappearing behind the shed. He knows what I can't seem to accept: some hungers aren't meant to be fed.