The Color of Goodbye

The hat sat on the closet's top shelf, collecting dust and memories alike. It had been his—a beat-up fedora he'd worn with ironic charm on their first date, the one where they'd shared orange slices at midnight on a fire escape. That night, he'd told her he loved the smell of citrus on her fingers. Three years later, he'd told her he didn't love her anymore.

Now Elena stood in her kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach that needed to be used before it turned. Cooking had become her way of swimming through grief—chopping, stirring, tasting until her hands were too busy to shake. Tonight she'd make his favorite salad, the one with warm spinach and citrus, though he'd never taste it again.

Her phone buzzed. Mark.

She'd met him at the pool where she'd started swimming laps at dawn, desperate to exhaust herself enough to sleep. He'd commented on her stroke—inefficient but determined—and somehow they'd ended up at the diner across the street, sharing an orange and talking until sunrise. He was kind, uncomplicated. The opposite of her ex in every way.

But Elena felt stuck in the deep end, treading water. The hat was still up there. Her apartment still smelled faintly of the cologne her ex had worn, despite three months of windows thrown open. She was cooking meals for a ghost.

She picked up her phone. 'Come over. I'm making dinner.'

Then she climbed onto the counter and reached for the hat, tossing it into the trash without looking back. The spinach hit the pan with a satisfying hiss. Somewhere beneath the sizzle, she thought she heard herself finally exhaling.