The Goldfish at 3 AM

I sit alone at 3 AM, nursing a glass of cheap orange juice in the harsh light of the refrigerator door. The goldfish bowl on the counter catches the glow, its solitary inhabitant swimming in endless, forgetful circles. Poor bastard. They say goldfish have seven-second memories, but I wonder if that's a blessing or a curse.

Sarah left seven weeks ago. The spinach in the crisper drawer has long since liquefied, but I can't bring myself to clean it out. It's become a monument to meals we never ate, to the domestic rituals that dissolved when she packed her bags and said she couldn't bear the weight of us anymore.

"You're carrying too much," she'd said, her hand on the doorknob. "You're like a bear hibernating with your own grief."

I'd laughed bitterly. "What grief? We're just... tired."

"That's the worst kind, David. The grief of what never was."

Now the apartment echoes with conversations I have with myself. I catch my reflection in shop windows—hollowed eyes, unshaved jaw, a man who's forgotten how to want anything. The goldfish rises to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent demand. Feed me. Notice me. Confirm I exist.

I sprinkle flakes into the water. Watch them float, uneaten.

At work, everyone pretends not to notice the way I stare at my wedding ring, still on my finger after all these months. Sometimes I take it off and spin it on my desk, watching the silver blur, hypnotic as the goldfish's endless loops.

The thing about grief is its unpredictability. It's not a bear you can outrun or outfight. It's the spinach rotting in your refrigerator because you can't bear to acknowledge that life continues to decay around you. It's the way orange juice tastes like Sunday mornings you'll never have again.

I reach into the bowl. The goldfish brushes against my finger—slight, cold, alive. For a moment, I feel something almost like hope.

Then the phone rings. It's my mother, calling to ask if I'm eating enough vegetables. I look at the spinach, now unrecognizable, and consider the lie I'll tell her.

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm doing fine."