Numbers on the Screen

The iphone lay on her nightstand like a guilty secret, its screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications she refused to check. Sarah hadn't spoken to Mark in three weeks since he'd walked out with nothing but his suitcase and that damn dog.

Her hair had started to show gray at the temples. She'd noticed it two days after Mark left, staring into the bathroom mirror at 3 AM, wondering when she'd stopped being the woman he'd fallen for. The stylist had offered to color it, but Sarah had refused. Something about letting the gray stay felt like reclaiming herself.

"Buster needs his heart medication," Mark's text read. It was the first contact since the breakup.

The golden retriever had been Mark's idea—his midlife crisis companion, his excuse to walk in the park and chat up strangers. Now Buster was Sarah's responsibility, his golden fur collecting on her clothes like unwanted memories.

She found the dog curled on Mark's side of the bed, his head resting on the pillow where Mark used to sleep. Buster's medication sat in the kitchen cabinet, expensive pills Mark had never remembered to give anyway. Sarah had been giving them daily, her hands gentle on the dog's velvet ears, whispering things she'd never said to Mark: I'm here. You're not alone. We'll figure this out.

Her iphone buzzed again. Mark was asking when he could stop by. When could he see Buster?

Sarah ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the coarse silver strands at her temples. Something shifted inside her—some final letting go. She typed back: "Buster's not here anymore. I found him a better home."

The dog lifted his head, his brown eyes full of that unconditional love she didn't deserve. Sarah petted him slowly, deliberately.

"He's sleeping on my pillow right now," she added, and pressed send.

Then she blocked Mark's number for good.