The Animal Inside

The divorce papers sat on her kitchen counter, glowing in the light from her iPhone as David's name flashed across the screen. Again. She'd changed her hair three times in the past month—copper to chestnut to something approaching black—as if pigment could rearrange the wreckage.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, pressed his warm weight against her leg. He'd been David's dog first, chosen during that optimistic weekend in Vermont when they still believed in forever. Now the dog was the only living thing that looked at her with something resembling love.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, and she counted the seconds before thunder shook the windows. One, two, three—close enough to feel in your teeth. She used to love storms. David would wrap around her from behind, his breath in her ear, whispering about how they'd bear anything together.

That word—bear. It had been carrying so much weight lately. Bear the separation. Bear the silence. Bear her mother's voice on the phone: "You'll find someone, honey, you're still pretty."

She didn't want to be pretty. She wanted to be whole.

Her iPhone chimed—David, inevitably. She answered before she could think better of it.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

Silence on the line. Then: "I don't know. Are you?"

Barnaby whined, sensing something in her voice. She buried her fingers in his fur, took a breath.

"I'm learning to be," she said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. "Lightning just struck. The power's out."

"Be safe, Elena."

"You too."

She hung up, and in that sudden quiet, she finally understood what she'd been bearing all these years—not just him, but the smaller, hungrier version of herself she'd fed to keep him satisfied. The dog pressed closer, and she let herself cry, really cry, for the first time since the papers arrived.

Outside, the storm broke.