Rust and Amber Light

The orange parking lot light flickered outside Marissa's apartment window, casting long shadows across her bedroom ceiling. 3:14 AM. The cat—Barnaby, her ex-husband's parting gift—sat in the windowsill, yellow eyes tracking something invisible in the darkness.

"You see him too, don't you?" Marissa whispered, sitting up. The antidepressants sat on her nightstand, bright orange bottles arranged like votive candles. Vitamin D, the doctor had prescribed. For the seasonal affective disorder, the clinical name for what happened when your marriage ended in February and the world turned gray.

Barnaby turned his head, tail flicking with singular purpose. Marissa followed his gaze across the street, where a figure stood beneath the streetlamp. Daniel. Her Daniel, or the memory of him, half-illuminated in that sickly sodium glow.

She'd been seeing him for weeks. In the checkout line at CVS. In the rearview mirror. Always at the periphery, always just beyond reach.

The vitamin bottle cap twisted open with a satisfying snap. Dry, chalky pills sliding onto her tongue. The doctor said it would take six weeks to feel better. It had been five.

Barnaby meowed, a sound like tearing silk, and Marissa realized she was crying. Not for Daniel—not exactly. For the life they'd almost built. For the orange paint samples they'd collected that weekend, lying abandoned on the floor of her closet. For the way he'd looked at her that last morning, like she was a stranger he'd once loved.

The figure across the street flickered and vanished. Streetlight playing tricks, or her brain finally surrendering to the chemical adjustment. Either way.

She lay back down, the cat curling against her feet. Outside, the orange light hummed its electric lullaby. Somewhere beyond the window, morning was waiting. But for now, there was only the weight of the animal, the bitter aftertaste of the pill, and the long, slow stretch of darkness before dawn.