Tangled Wires

The apartment was too quiet without him. Elena sat on the floor, surrounded by half-packed boxes, the midday sun casting long shadows across the hardwood. In her hand, her iPhone lit up again—his name, the third call today. She let it ring until the screen went dark, watching the notification fade like smoke.

She should have been packing. Instead, she was holding the coaxial cable he'd never properly mounted to the wall, the one that dangled there like a forgotten promise, loose and gathering dust. Three years they'd lived here, and he'd never fixed it. Always said he would. Never did.

The kettle whistled. She rose to make tea, her movements automatic, practiced. Standing at the sink, she watched water pour from the faucet, clear and endless, thinking about all the things that slip away without notice. Time. Trust. The specific way someone says your name when they still mean it.

On the counter sat the last orange from the grocery run they'd made together—that terrible Saturday when they'd fought in the produce section about something she couldn't even remember anymore. He'd wanted apples. She'd wanted oranges. They'd bought both, then come home and eaten dinner in silence, the fruit bowl between them like a battlefield.

She peeled it now, the citrus scent sharp and bright, cutting through the stale air of the half-empty room. She ate one wedge, then another. It was too sour, almost painfully so, but she kept eating, letting the juice sting her lips, her fingers, letting it be something real she could feel.

Her phone chimed. A text this time: *I'm coming over.*

Elena looked at the cable still dangling from the wall, at the boxes, at the orange rind in her palm. She thought about water rising slowly, imperceptibly, until you're already drowning. Some things, you don't see until they've already taken you under.

She typed back: *Don't.* Then she blocked his number, picked up the cable, and finally, finally threw it in the trash.