Sunday's Absence

Maya stood under the shower, hot water pummeling her shoulders while she watched strands of her hair swirl down the drain. Two weeks post-breakup, and still she searched for his face in the steam. Her phone sat on the bathroom counter, dark and accusatory. When the screen lit up with another notification, she felt her chest tighten before realizing it was just her calendar reminder: grocery shopping.

At the market, she moved through produce sections with mechanical precision. The spinach looked too vibrant, too alive. She dropped a bag in her cart anyway—health was what you were supposed to want after your life fell apart. Then she saw them: papayas, exotic and alien in fluorescent produce light. He'd loved them. Had bought them religiously every Sunday, cutting them open with such care, exposing their slick black seeds like secrets neither wanted to speak.

She reached for one, then stopped. Her fingers hovered over the fruit's mottled skin. What was the point of eating things you loved alone?

Back home, she dropped groceries on the counter. Her iPhone buzzed again. His name. Again. She pressed it to her ear, listening to his voicemail message save automatically, deleting without hearing. The repetition had become ritual.

The spinach wilted in the fridge for three days.

On Thursday, she pulled herself from bed at 3 AM, unable to sleep. She stood at the sink, cupping water to her face, gasping at the cold. In the mirror, she saw someone unrecognizable. Her hair was matted, eyes hollow, skin parchment-dry from crying.

She found the papaya on the counter, forgotten and overripe. When she cut it open, the flesh gave too easily, fermented sweet. She ate it standing over the sink, juice dripping down her chin, letting herself taste it properly for the first time—complex, earthy, nothing like she remembered. He'd never known what she actually liked anyway.

She washed her face again, this time with intention. Later, she'd text him back. Not to reconcile, but to finally say the things she'd swallowed for years.

The water ran clear.