The Fruit We Couldn't Taste

I wake before dawn in our overpriced Costa Rican bungalow, the blue glow of my iPhone illuminating Elena's sleeping face. She's beautiful in sleep, mouth slightly parted, unaware I'm scrolling through layoffs back in Chicago.

Another message from Brad: "Market's behaving like a wounded bear. Need you on that call at 7 AM." The stock app bleeds red arrows everywhere—our portfolio hemorrhaging alongside my patience.

I slip outside to the deck where yesterday's papaya sits uneaten, its orange flesh already turning mushy in the humidity. We were supposed to share it for breakfast, pretend we were one of those couples who actually does digital detoxes. Instead I spent three hours on Zoom while Elena read by the pool, her silence growing louder than the ocean below.

The water stretches dark and endless before me. I think about how I promised this trip would fix us—how two weeks away from the grind would remind us why we fell in love. But here I am, checking email before sunrise, while she sleeps alone in a bed we paid too much for.

My phone buzzes again. Another crisis. Another fire. Another reason I can't be present.

Elena appears in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the softening dawn. She holds out her hand—not for the phone, but for mine.

"Brad can wait," she says, and I realize I've been waiting for someone to give me permission to disconnect.

I set the iPhone on the table beside the rotting papaya. The screen lights up with another notification, then dims. For the first time in days, I don't check it.

"Let's have breakfast," I say, reaching for her hand. "Really have it."

She smiles, and for a moment, everything feels possible again.