Static in the Dark

Maya hasn't slept since the funeral. At 3 AM, she lies in bed, the iPhone's blue light illuminating her face like a ghostly fingerprint. She scrolls through old text messages — the ones from David, the ones she never answered, the ones that now feel like evidence of a crime she didn't know she was committing.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, sleeps at the foot of the bed, his breathing synchronized with hers. They're both trapped in this purgatory of the apartment, waiting for someone who's never coming back. The dog lifts his head sometimes, ears perked toward the door, as if David's key might still turn in the lock.

She walks to the kitchen in the predawn darkness, the sink dripping — a steady, maddening rhythm of water against metal. It reminds her of the IV line in David's final week, the terrible counting of time in measured doses. She turns the faucet handle tighter, but the water keeps falling, drop by drop.

The iPhone buzzes in her pocket. A notification from his email account she hasn't had the heart to close. "Your cloud storage is full." Of course it is. He saved everything: photos of Barnaby at the beach, videos of Maya sleeping, receipts from dinners they can't remember. A digital archive of a life that ended at forty-two.

She stands at the kitchen counter, head bowed. Tears come suddenly, hot and fast. She didn't know she still had them left. They pool in her collarbones, trace paths down her chest like the first rain on dry earth.

Barnaby appears in the doorway, tail wagging tentatively. He approaches slowly, presses his warm side against her leg. His fur smells of sleep and something else — of David, she thinks, though she knows it's just her imagination.

"It's just us now," she whispers to him. The words feel like surrender.

The sink drips. The iPhone screen dims to black. Somewhere outside, distant thunder rolls through the heavy summer air. Maya wraps her arms around the dog's neck, buries her face in his fur, and finally, finally lets herself drown.