Palm Springs, Last Tuesday

The vitamin D bottle sat on her nightstand, a daily reminder that even her bones were giving up. Elena traced the palm lines on her left hand, something she'd started doing after Dr. Patel said her mother had six months, maybe nine. Outside, the palm tree swayed in the desert wind, its fronds scratching against the window like fingers trying to get in.

Her iPhone lit up with a notification from work — some email that could wait until Monday, or forever. The gnawing in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger. Everything tasted like cardboard anyway.

"You going to finish that?" Mark asked, gesturing toward her untouched dinner. His baseball cap sat backward on his head, the way he'd worn it when they met at that dive bar in Venice Beach. Three years of Sunday brunches, midnight fights, mornings where she'd wake up counting the reasons to stay.

She thought about telling him. The words sat behind her teeth like stones. Instead, she said, "Not hungry."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine."

The lie felt heavy, solid. Like something she could hold in her palm and examine.

"You've been different lately," he said, setting down his beer. "I miss you."

She thought about the baseball games they'd watched last season, how he'd explained the statistics while she pretended to care. How he'd hold her hand during the ninth inning, his palm warm against hers, both of them pretending this was enough.

"Mark," she started, then stopped. The vitamin D bottle caught the light. Her mother had taken vitamins every morning, religiously, until she didn't.

"What?" His phone buzzed. He didn't check it.

"Nothing," she said. "I'm just tired."

The palm tree kept swaying, its shadow moving across the floor like time passing. Some truths, she decided, could wait until the baseball season ended. Until the pills ran out. Until she figured out how to say: the person I thought I was doesn't exist anymore, and I don't know if you ever really knew her at all.

"Come to bed," she said instead.

He followed her into the bedroom, neither of them noticing the missed call from her sister. The night outside was enormous and patient, filled with things they'd eventually have to say.