The Goldfish in the Orange Light

Mara watched the goldfish circle its bowl, hypnotic and stupid. It had been three weeks since Julian left, and she'd somehow become responsible for this creature—a gift he'd given her two months before he decided he needed 'space.'

The orange glow of the streetlamp filtered through her apartment window, making everything look like it was submerged in warm, toxic water. She ran her hands through her hair, now noticeably grayer at the temples, and wondered at what point emotional exhaustion starts showing on your body. Julian used to smooth those stray hairs back from her face. Now the gesture existed only as a phantom sensation.

'You have to bear this,' her therapist had said that morning. 'The uncertainty. The not-knowing.' Mara hated that word—bear. As if grief were something you could physically carry, like a backpack or a child. As if the weight of it wouldn't eventually crush you.

She'd bumped into Julian's new girlfriend yesterday. A woman with thick orange hair and the kind of effortless confidence Mara had never possessed. They'd both reached for the same carton of orange juice at the grocery store—a cliché so perfect it felt staged. The woman had smiled, unaware. Mara had smiled back, teeth gritted, wanting to scream.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles.

'He's going to die too,' she whispered to the empty room. 'Everything does.'

She considered flushing the goldfish, putting both of them out of their misery. Instead, she sprinkled flakes into the bowl and watched him eat, this tiny creature who knew nothing of betrayal or the way love could curdle into something unrecognizable.

Tomorrow she'd buy herself orange juice. Tomorrow she'd make an appointment to get her hair colored. Tomorrow she'd stop waiting for Julian to realize his mistake.

Tonight, she watched a fish swim in circles and understood, finally, how it felt to forget you were in a bowl at all.