The Burden We Bear

David stood in the produce aisle, staring at the oranges like they might offer answers. His marriage had ended three weeks ago—Sarah left because, as she put it, 'I can't love a zombie anymore.' She hadn't meant the undead kind. She meant the way he'd become hollowed out by insurance audits and quarterly reports, the way he came home and stared at television without really seeing it.

He remembered their trip to Yellowstone, years ago. They'd seen a grizzly bear across a meadow, magnificent and indifferent to their existence. Sarah had squeezed his hand, breathless. 'Imagine carrying that much weight and still moving like you own the world,' she'd said. Now David felt like that bear—massive, sluggish, burdened by something he couldn't name.

The fluorescent lights hummed. He picked up an orange, its skin impossibly bright against his gray mood. Sarah used to peel them for him, her fingers stained with citrus, leaving the fruit in perfect segments like some small grace. He hadn't eaten properly since she left. Everything tasted like cardboard and regret.

A woman in the next aisle was crying quietly into her phone. David wanted to offer something—words, comfort, anything—but his throat had sealed shut. That zombie quality Sarah hated. The inability to feel things properly, to respond when it mattered.

He bought the orange anyway. Back in his empty apartment, he peeled it mechanically, the scent sharp and nostalgic. The first segment burst on his tongue—shockingly sweet, almost painful. For a moment, he wasn't a zombie or a bear or any of the heavy things he'd become. Just a man eating fruit in the quiet, finally allowing himself to taste something real again.