Frayed Connection

Ellie woke to the sound of Marcus's iPhone vibrating on his nightstand—again. 3:14 AM. The fourth time tonight.

She watched his silhouette in the half-light, his palm pressed against his forehead as he typed furiously. The blue glow painted his exhausted face. Work emergencies, he'd said. But Ellie had noticed how he shielded the screen whenever she walked by.

The charging cable stretched between them like a lifeline across their mattress, the only thing still connecting their worlds.

"You should take a vitamin," she'd told him yesterday, holding out the orange bottle she'd bought for his stressed immune system. He'd waved it away, already turning back to his glowing rectangle.

That morning, she found him in the kitchen. He'd made fresh orange juice—their Sunday ritual for seven years—but he'd poured it into a travel mug. "Running to the office," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Big deadline."

"Since when do you go in on Sundays?"

"Since the merger. You know how it is."

She didn't. Not anymore.

The cable on his nightstand had been fraying for months. Every day, she meant to replace it. Every day, she forgot. Now she wondered if she'd forgotten on purpose.

That evening, she found the phone unlocked on the bathroom counter. Messages from someone named Sam. Plans for Tuesday. Tuesday, when he'd said he'd be at a conference.

She thought about the orange juice, the vitamins he refused, the palm that used to find hers in his sleep. The cable finally gave—she heard it snap when he tried to plug it in.

"Damn thing," he muttered.

"I know," she said, and walked out the door.