Papaya Season

Elena sat across from Marcus at the bistro, the papaya on her plate glistening like something that had just begun to weep. He'd ordered it for her—remembered how she loved it, how the sweetness reminded her of her grandmother's kitchen in Manila. That was the problem with Marcus. He remembered everything, even the things she wished he'd forget.

'You're doing it again,' she said, pushing the fruit around with her fork.

'Doing what?'

'The way you look at me. Like I'm something you need to figure out.' She met his eyes. 'Like I'm a case.'

Marcus didn't flinch. Because he wasn't her boyfriend anymore, hadn't been for three months. He was the private investigator her sister had hired after Elena started receiving threatening letters at work. Corporate sabotage, they'd called it. Someone wanted her consulting firm's client list. The letters had stopped two weeks ago, but Marcus hadn't.

He'd stayed late at her apartment those first nights, sitting in her kitchen while she made tea, watching her windows like he was still on the clock. She'd caught him checking her phone once, his thumb hovering over her emails.

'I'm just trying to keep you safe, El.'

'You're not being paid anymore.' She signaled for the check. 'And you were never supposed to—'

'Fall for the subject?' His voice was quiet. 'I know.'

Her goldfish, Bowlbob, floated listlessly in his tank back home. She'd forgotten to feed him that morning, forgotten to take her vitamin D supplements for the third day running. Everything was slipping—the careful rituals she'd built to hold herself together. And Marcus, with his watchful eyes and his uncanny ability to see through every wall she'd ever erected, was the worst thing that could happen to her right now.

She'd hired someone else to trace the letters. They'd found the sender: her former business partner, bitter over their split. Case closed. But Marcus was still showing up at her favorite restaurants, still remembering how she took her coffee, still looking at her like she was a puzzle he'd almost solved.

'I'm seeing someone,' she lied.

He nodded, something like relief breaking across his face. 'Good. That's—good.'

The papaya sat untouched between them, its perfect orange flesh darkening where she'd pressed her fork. Some seasons end before you're ready for them to.