The Goldfish at the Edge of Everything

Maya stared at the papaya on her desk, its flesh speckled like a bruised sunset. Steve had brought it in yesterday, that awkward Wednesday when he'd cornered her in the breakroom and said he was leaving. Leaving the firm, leaving the city, leaving whatever this thing was between them that they'd never named.

"You should eat more fruit," he'd told her, placing the papaya gently beside her keyboard. "It's got more vitamin C than oranges. You look tired, Maya."

He wasn't wrong. She was tired — of the 14-hour days, of the spreadsheet purgatory, of the way her mother called every Sunday asking when she'd find someone, of the goldfish bowl of her apartment where she swam in circles, forgetting and remembering the same disappointments.

She'd bought the goldfish on impulse three months ago after another fight with Steve about boundaries. Named him Existential Crisis. He lived in a bowl on her nightstand, his memory supposedly three seconds long, though Maya suspected he simply chose to forget. She envied him sometimes.

Now Steve was gone, and the papaya sat ripening on her desk like a countdown. She sliced it open during her lunch break, the juice staining her fingers sticky-sweet. The office hummed around her, phones ringing, keyboards clicking, everyone pretending their work meant something.

Maya took a bite and remembered: Steve's hand on her lower back at the holiday party. The way he looked at her across boardroom tables. The night they'd gotten drunk and almost crossed the line, the papaya taste of his mouth when she pulled away.

She threw the rest in the trash. The goldfish at home would need feeding. She'd need to buy more vitamins. She'd need to learn how to be in this world alone, or at least pretend convincingly enough that no one would ask.

Tomorrow she'd bring donuts for the team. Smile at the new hire. Maybe get a cat. Something that remembered longer than three seconds, something that wouldn't let her forget what she couldn't bear to keep knowing.