The Color of Goodbye

The padel court echoed with the sharp smack of rubber against glass, each shot a punctuation mark in the silence between them. Elena's wrist flicked, sending the ball spiraling into the corner—just out of Marco's reach. He didn't even try to chase it.

"You're not even trying anymore," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the collar of her orange shirt. The color had faded from it, like everything else between them.

"I'm tired, El. Just tired."

Back at their apartment, Buster—a golden retriever they'd rescued seven years ago—lay by the door, his muzzle now gray with age. He thumped his tail once at their entrance, then settled back into the rhythm of his labored breathing. The vet had given him six months, maybe a year. The timeline felt familiar.

On the kitchen counter, the goldfish bowl caught the afternoon light—a single, lonely fish swimming in endless circles. They'd bought it at a carnival during their first year together, back when they thought such things could live forever. Marco had changed its water religiously every week for eight years, a devotion he'd stopped extending to other things.

"We need to talk," Elena said, not looking at him. She peeling an orange, its scent sharp and clean against the stale air of unspoken words. Citrus and silence.

"About Buster?" Marco asked, though he knew better.

"About us." Her fingers tore into the fruit's flesh. "About how we've been swimming in circles for years."

Marco watched her hands. He remembered the day they'd won the goldfish, how she'd kissed him under carnival lights, the taste of cotton candy and hope. Now there was just the sound of their dying dog and the goldfish's endless laps around its glass prison.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said finally.

"You stopped wanting anything a long time ago." She placed half the orange in his palm. Their fingers didn't touch. "That's the problem."

The fish swam on, oblivious. Outside, the sun set the sky ablaze—all the burning oranges of endings they'd both seen coming for years. Sometimes love doesn't die; it just forgets to keep swimming against the current. Buster sighed in his sleep, dreaming of runs they'd never take together again.