The Color of Goodbye

Tom stood at the edge of the overgrown baseball diamond, glove in hand, watching the sunset bleed orange across the horizon. Three years since Sarah left. Two since his father's death. One since he'd bothered to show up at this field where his dad had taught him to swing.

A golden retriever—Maggie, the neighbor's dog—trotted over and dropped a slobbery tennis ball at his feet. Her owner had died last month. cancer. The kind that comes slow, then all at once. Tom had been holding her leash when the light went out of Mrs. Henderson's eyes.

"You miss her too, don't you?" he said, scratching behind her ears. She leaned into his touch like she'd known him forever.

The baseball felt wrong in his hand—too light, like something from a dream. His dad's old glove had rotted in the garage years ago. Everything rotted eventually. Relationships. Bodies. Dreams.

He wound up and threw the ball. Maggie bounded after it, ears streaming, joy uncomplicated. She returned it, tail wagging, ready for forever. Tom envied her.

His phone buzzed. Sarah's name lit up the screen. *I'm getting married. Wanted you to hear it from me.*

The orange sun dipped below the treeline, painting the field in funeral colors. Tom thought about the wedding he'd never have. The children he'd never raise. The seasons he'd spend watching other people's lives move forward while his stayed frozen in amber.

Maggie nudged his hand, ball_again_ball_again. And suddenly he was eight years old, his dad's voice ringing across this same field—*keep your eye on the ball, Tommy, that's all that matters.*

The thought struck him with such force it nearly knocked him over: maybe you only get one person who really sees you. Maybe after that, you're just haunting your own life.

He threw the ball again, harder this time. Maggie sprinted, a golden streak against the dying light.

Tom typed back: *Congratulations. I'm happy for you.*

Then he deleted it and typed: *Tell him I said good luck. He'll need it.*

He sent that instead.

The orange faded to gray. Maggie returned, dropped the ball at his feet, and looked up with such unconditional whatever that Tom found himself smiling for the first time in months.

"Alright, girl," he said. "One more. Then we go home."

He wound up. The ball arced through the twilight, and somewhere, in the space between what was and what would never be, Tom finally let himself breathe.