The Funeral We Never Had

The goldfish bowl sat on his kitchen counter, its water clouding with neglect. Three years of relationship reduced to one orange fish circling in endless figure-eights, and somewhere in this apartment, Fox was probably asleep or maybe already gone. The iPhone in my palm vibrated—my mother, again, wanting to know when I'd visit. I silenced it without answering.

"You're like a zombie," he'd told me two nights ago, his voice thick with gin and resignation. "Just going through the motions, Marcie. When's the last time you actually felt something?"

I'd wanted to slap him. Instead I'd poured myself another drink and watched his reflection in the darkened window—a sharp-angled man unraveling at the edges, desperate for something I couldn't give him. Fox. Even his name felt like a warning I'd ignored.

The goldfish bumped against glass, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles. Dave had won it at a carnival our first summer together, some cheesy attempt at romance that had somehow stuck. Now it was the only living thing left between us.

My palm was sweating against the phone screen. I should text him. I should pack my things and leave before he woke up. I should do something besides stand here watching a fish forget its surroundings every three seconds.

Dave called them zombie relationships—the ones that kept shuffling forward long after the soul had gone. We'd laughed about it over drinks with friends, performed our little routine of happily-ever-after while the walls closed in. But somewhere between his promotion and my mother's diagnosis, between the missed anniversary dinner and the nights he spent gaming while I stared at the ceiling, something essential had rotted away.

The goldfish swam to the surface, expecting food.

"Sorry, little guy," I whispered.

Outside, a siren wailed through the city. Somewhere, someone was having the worst night of their life. Somewhere, someone was falling in love. In this kitchen, I was finally mourning a relationship that had died months ago while we both pretended otherwise.

I left the fish unfed. I left my key on the counter. I walked out into the cold night air, iPhone burning in my pocket, and for the first time in years, I felt something like hope.