Storm Weathered

The lightning struck three times before Marcus finally admitted he was leaving. Each flash illuminated the apartment's hollows—the bare walls where her paintings used to hang, the single coffee cup he'd left behind, the dog bed that had been empty since Barnaby died two months ago.

Elena sat at the kitchen island, sorting vitamins into one of those plastic organizers with compartments marked M-T-W-Th-F. Calcium with D. Magnesium for sleep. B-complex because her doctor said she looked tired. The routine felt comforting, mechanical, safe.

"It's not about another woman," Marcus said, his voice strained. "It's that I can't breathe anymore."

She swallowed a potassium tablet without water. The irony wasn't lost on her—that she'd spent years trying to keep their hearts beating regular, while their marriage quietly went into arrhythmia.

Outside, the storm intensified. Rain slashed against the windows. She thought about the day they'd brought Barnaby home, that golden retriever puppy with paws too big for his body, how Marcus had cried when the dog chewed his favorite loafers. How they'd both cried last autumn, holding the old dog's paws as the vet administered the final injection.

They'd been waiting for something to happen—for the grief to lift, for the apartment to stop feeling so vast, for the silence to stop pressing against her eardrums. Instead, they'd just started avoiding each other's eyes.

"What about the vitamins?" Elena asked, surprising herself.

Marcus paused at the door. "What?"

"You never bought your own. You just took whatever I put in your hand."

He stood there, raincoat dripping on the mat. "I'll figure it out."

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The kitchen went bright as noon, then plunged back into shadow. For a moment, she saw everything clearly—how they'd been living like two people sharing a fallout shelter, sustained by routine and the memory of comfort, neither willing to admit the war had ended years ago.

"Take the damn vitamins, Marcus," she said, and her voice didn't break. "At least do that."

He took the bottle she slid across the counter. The door clicked shut. In the morning, she'd adopt another dog. Not because she was ready, but because the apartment needed something breathing in it.