Hat in Hand

The faucet had been dripping for three days. Elena sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching the water spiral down the drain in perfect, hypnotic rhythm. Each drop struck the porcelain with a tiny, deliberate plink—a metronome counting down the hours since Marcus left.

She'd spent the first twenty-four hours running through the apartment in a panic, checking every closet, every drawer, as if he might be hiding like some grotesque game of hide-and-seek. But his hats were gone from the rack by the door. His coats from the hall closet. Only his old cable-knit sweater remained, draped over the armchair where he'd read to her on Sunday mornings. She couldn't bring herself to touch it.

Her phone buzzed on the counter—probably work, demanding to know why she hadn't submitted the Q3 projections. She watched the screen light up and fade, light up and fade. The HDMI cable connecting the TV to the wall snaked across the floor like a black snake, reminder of the evenings they'd spent curled together watching documentaries about deep-sea creatures and distant galaxies.

Now the faucet's water called to her. Elena twisted the handle and stepped into the shower, fully clothed. The fabric clung to her skin, heavy and suffocating, as she slid down to sit on the tiled floor. The hat she'd worn to Marcus's goodbye party floated off her head and circled the drain, caught in an eddy before being pulled under.

She realized then what she'd been running from all week: not the pain, but the quiet certainty that she should have seen it coming. The way his eyes had stopped meeting hers across the dinner table. The way his touches had grown perfunctory, rehearsed. The water washed over her, and for the first time in days, Elena didn't feel like screaming. She just felt clean.