Paper Storms

Mara stared at her iPhone on the marble counter, the screen lighting up with nothing—not his name, not even a spam call. Three weeks since David walked out during dinner, leaving behind his half-finished papaya on the plate. She used to cut it for them both, scooping out the black seeds they'd joke were bitter dreams they were spitting out together.

The vitamins sat in their weekly organizer—she'd stopped taking them when he left. What was the point of preparing for a future that had dissolved?

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, white veins against purple bruising clouds. The storm matched the hollow ache in her chest. She'd always loved thunder, the way it made the world feel small, survivable. Now the apartment felt too large, filled with echoes of arguments they'd never resolve.

Her phone buzzed. Not David. Her mother: "You should eat something."

Mara sliced into the papaya David had never finished. The flesh was soft, surrendering to her knife. She ate it standing at the window, watching lightning strike the same tree twice.

The vitamins caught her eye—prenatal ones she'd bought the day before he left. She'd never told him. He'd made himself clear about children, about not wanting to be tied down. Another secret she'd swallowed.

She popped the vitamin from the Tuesday slot. Then Wednesday's. Thursday's.

The lightning illuminated everything for a heartbeat—the empty nursery they'd never made, the papaya-stained plate, the future she'd build alone. She didn't need him to want this. She just needed to want it herself.

Her iPhone lit up again. Still not him. She turned it face down and kept eating.