The Cat in the Palm of Your Hand

The spinach wilted in the colander, much like David's patience for my late-night existential crises. I watched him from the doorway of our apartment, already half-packed, his cat carrier sitting by the door like a small judgment.Three years of relationship reduced to boxes and this ridiculous argument about dinner.

"You're always running away," he'd said earlier, his voice breaking on the word. "From jobs, from conversations, from anything that requires you to stay present."

The accusation stung because it wasn't entirely wrong. My palm still tingled from where I'd slammed my hand against the counter during our fight. Now, looking at his silhouette against the kitchen window, I felt something crack open inside me—a reminder of how easily I'd learned to leave.

Our tabby, Cleo, wound between my legs, purring as if she could fix this with enough friction. I scooped her up, her warm weight a comfort I didn't deserve. She'd been David's cat first, another thing I'd inherited without really earning.

"Are you staying or going?" David asked without turning around. The question hung between us like smoke.

The spinach needed to be cooked or thrown away. That was the thing about decisions—inaction was still a choice. I thought about my mother leaving when I was seven, how she'd packed her car while I slept, how I'd spent my twenties running from the pattern I swore I wouldn't repeat.

"I'm making dinner," I said.

David turned. The look on his face—hope warring with exhaustion—made something in my chest ache. He shrugged, a small movement that might have been forgiveness or might have been resignation.

"Garlic?" he asked.

"Extra."

Cleo jumped from my arms and padded toward her bowl. The evening wasn't saved, exactly. But as David reached for the olive oil and our fingers brushed, I felt something shift. Maybe staying would be the hardest thing I'd ever had to learn to do.