The Color of Goodbye

The orange sat on Mara's desk like a small, stubborn sun. It had been three weeks since David stopped coming into the office—no announcement, no farewell email, just an empty chair and the sudden silence where his laugh used to echo.

They called themselves friends, though Mara wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Not after the night she'd driven him to the hospital at 3 AM, his hand trembling against hers, and he'd still never told her what was wrong. Not after he'd looked at her with those exhausted eyes and said, "Some things are better carried alone."

Now his golden retriever, Barnaby, waited by her door every morning. The dog had somehow learned her schedule, appearing like clockwork, tail thumping a slow, hopeful rhythm against the doorframe. Martha from down the hall had started bringing her treats, assuming Barnaby was hers.

"He's not mine," Mara kept saying, but she was the one buying the dog food now.

She found herself running more—past the park where David used to sit on his favorite bench, past the coffee shop they'd claimed as theirs, past his apartment building with its dark windows. Her lungs would burn, her legs would ache, and still she couldn't outrun the weight of everything she didn't know.

The truth pressed against her like water rising: David was dying, or had already died, and she was too cowardly to find out which.

Today, she peeled the orange. The scent hit her like memory—bright, sharp, impossibly vivid. David had loved them. Had eaten one every afternoon at his desk, letting the juice run down his fingers, laughing when she'd teased him about being a mess.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Mara?" A woman's voice, tired and kind. "I'm David's sister. He asked me to call."

The orange segment slipped from Mara's fingers.

"He wants to see you. If you're still willing to be a friend, that is."

Outside, Barnaby barked—once, sharp and knowing. The color of goodbye, Mara realized, wasn't black or gray or the hollow white of hospital walls. It was orange: bright, impossible, the thing that tastes like hope even when everything inside you has gone cold.

She grabbed her coat and started running—not away this time, but toward.