The Empty Bowl

The papaya sat uneaten on the breakfast buffet, its flesh the color of a sunset she'd never watched with him. Elena should have been excited — Amalfi Coast, company retreat, all expenses paid — but instead she kept checking her phone, waiting for a message that wouldn't come.

"You're not really present, are you?"

She looked up. Marcus from Accounting stood too close, holding a mimosa. They'd almost slept together at last year's holiday party. The memory made her stomach turn.

"Just thinking about work," she lied.

"The running backs your team drafted," he said, nodding toward her phone screen where she'd been refreshing the same baseball stats for three days. "Obsessive."

It wasn't about baseball. It was about the spreadsheet she'd opened by accident two weeks ago — the one showing her position on the upcoming reduction in force list. Eighteen years at the firm, and she'd be gone by Christmas. The sports app was just something to click while she waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Come play padel with us," Marcus offered. "Beautiful courts here. You can't be alone with your thoughts forever."

Alone. The word stuck in her throat. Richard had left three months ago — packed his things into cardboard boxes, taken the TV, left behind only the goldfish bowl. She'd fed them every morning since, watching them swim in endless circles, wondering if they remembered him, or if they'd always been this alone.

"I'm good," she said.

That night, she walked to the pet store in town. The clerk was French, spoke little English, but understood when she pointed to the smallest fish they sold. A single neon tetra, bright as a promise.

Back in her hotel room, she lowered it into the bowl she'd brought in her luggage. Watched it dart among the lethargic goldfish, bringing sudden color to their gray routine.

Sometimes you had to introduce something new to make the old ones come alive again.

She texted Richard: Come get the fish. I'm moving on.

The phone buzzed once. Seen. No reply. That was enough.