Screenshots from a Sinking Ship

The dog was the first to know. Buster, our rescued golden retriever, stopped sleeping between us three months ago, choosing the cold floor of the bathroom instead. I should have paid attention then, but I was too busy checking my iphone at 2 AM, too convinced that the notifications lighting up my screen were more important than the silence growing between our sheets.

We were at the summer house for what we both knew would be the last time. The air conditioning had died again, and water dripped from the ceiling like a terrible clock, counting down something we refused to name. Mark was outside on the padel court, hitting ball after ball against the wall, the rhythmic thwack echoing across the empty property. We'd met on that court five years ago. I'd been his opponent, his partner, his everything. Now I watched from the window as his form dissolved in the humidity, alone in a game built for pairs.

"Your grandfather's baseball glove," I said, when he came inside, sweat-drenched and impossible to touch. "I found it in the attic. You kept it?" It was a peace offering, clumsy and desperate.

He looked at the glove, then at me, and I saw something worse than anger: indifference. "I kept everything, Sarah. That was your problem too—you never knew when to throw something out."

That night, I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, letting it erase whatever dignity I had left. Somewhere between the conditioner and the razor, I understood what Buster had known for months. Some matches end not with a final point, but with a walk to the net, shaking hands, and never picking up a racquet together again.

In the morning, I left the iphone on the kitchen counter. Let him deal with the notifications. Let him explain to Buster why I wasn't coming home. Some losses you don't need to document. You just learn to play through them alone.