Signal Loss

The cable guy was late, which Elena supposed was fitting. Her entire life lately felt like buffering—stuck in that agonizing pause where the image freezes, pixelated and frozen, before either resolving or cutting to black entirely.

Her iPhone lay face-down on the counter, screen cracked from where she'd thrown it three weeks ago when David's text came through: *I can't do this anymore.* Not *I'm sorry,* not *Let's talk,* just that flat, final declaration, delivered while she was in the middle of a quarterly review.

Barnaby—David's golden retriever, now hers by default—rested his head on her foot. He'd been David's idea, their ill-fated attempt at practicing for a family that never materialized. Now the dog was the only living thing that looked at her with something resembling love.

"Ma'am?" The cable guy's voice pulled her back. Young, maybe twenty-two, with that exhaustion particular to service workers who'd seen too many strangers' living rooms. "I need to check the connection in the bedroom."

Elena led him down the hall, stepping around the still-packed boxes labeled *KITCHEN* and *DAVID'S SHIT* in sharpie. The apartment felt cavernous without his clutter, without his mess, without him.

The cable guy worked efficiently, kneeling beside the wall jack. "You know," he said, not looking at her, "I can upgrade you to the premium package. Free for three months."

Elena laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "That's what David said when he convinced me to move in with him. 'It'll be great, Elena.' Free for three months, then the charges start rolling in."

The guy paused, coaxial cable in hand. "My wife left me last month," he said quietly. "Said I was too distant. Always working, always tired."

They stood there in her half-empty bedroom, two strangers bound by the common language of loss, while Barnaby whined in the kitchen.

"You know what's funny?" Elena said. "I haven't turned on my iPhone since he left. I keep checking it, like muscle memory, but I can't bring myself to actually call anyone. I think I've forgotten how to want connection."

The cable guy stood up, dusting off his knees. "The premium package includes 500 channels," he said. "Sometimes noise is better than silence."

He finished in silence. When he left, Elena sat on the floor with Barnaby, her hand buried in his fur, and turned on the television. 500 channels of static and noise and manufactured connection. Her iPhone screen lit up with a notification—David's sister, asking if she'd heard from him.

Elena turned the phone face-down again and let the cable news wash over her, the dog warm against her side, the apartment quiet except for the television's artificial light.