Midnight Reflections

The dog across the street barked again. That same relentless, rhythmic sound that had been my soundtrack for three months of insomnia. I'd named him 'Buster' in my head — a silent joke between me and the empty side of my bed.

I sat on my balcony at 2 AM, peeling an orange with mechanical precision. The citrus scent hit me like a memory I hadn't earned: our honeymoon in Seville, where you'd laughed at how I'd managed to spray juice all over my white shirt. That was before the promotions, before the corner offices, before the corporate retreat where you'd dominate the padel court while I sat on the sidelines nursing lukewarm sangria.

You'd been so vibrant then, so alive in your element. I'd loved watching you move — competitive, fierce, beautiful. But somewhere between the weekend tournaments and the quarterly earnings calls, we'd started becoming roommates who happened to share a bed.

The spinach sat wilting in my refrigerator, part of some ambitious meal plan I'd started after you left. 'Cooking for one,' the article had promised, 'can be an act of self-love.' Instead, it was just another reminder that my attempts at nourishment always ended up rotting in the crisper drawer.

The Barker across the street had gone silent. Maybe his owner had finally woken up. Maybe they'd had a fight about whose turn it was to take him out. God, I missed fighting with someone. The silence in this apartment was so absolute sometimes I could hear my own thoughts echoing off the walls, and they were never kind.

Tomorrow I'd go back to the office. I'd smile in meetings, I'd ace my presentations, I'd pretend I didn't know what everyone whispered about the guy whose wife left him for someone who could actually return a serve. Tonight, though, I'd finish my orange in the dark, listen for the dog, and pretend this was enough.