The Architecture of Grief

The apartment was too quiet since Marcus left. Elena stood before the fish tank, watching the last **goldfish**—orange and translucent—drift through filtered light like a small, forgotten sun. Three years they'd shared this apartment, this tank, this life. Now the divorce papers sat on the counter like a verdict she hadn't requested.

She swallowed her **vitamin** D supplement with tap water, the pill clicking against her teeth. The doctor said she was deficient. Everything about her was deficient now—iron, joy, purpose. She moved through her days at the architectural firm like a **zombie**, drafting luxury condos for people who had lives worth living, while she went home to microwave dinners and a fish that seemed as lonely as she was.

Her latest project: a glass pyramid to crown the city's newest skyscraper. She'd sketched it a hundred times, obsessing over angles and light refraction. Pyramids were monuments to ego, tombs disguised as triumphs. Marcus had called her brilliant for landing the commission. That was six months ago, before he found someone younger, someone who didn't work weekends, someone whose light didn't dim.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent petition. Elena sprinkled flakes into the water, watching them drift down like snow.

"You're the only one who needs me," she whispered.

The pyramid would be beautiful. She'd make sure of it. Some monuments lasted beyond the people who built them. Some things survived.