The Goldfish in the Orange Room

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter, white edges curling in the humidity. Seven years of marriage reduced to a stack of documents I couldn't bring myself to sign.

I found myself running at 2 AM, sneakers pounding the pavement, past darkened storefronts and streetlights that flickered like dying stars. The physical exhaustion was easier than the emotional kind. My iPhone buzzed in my pocket—Sarah again, asking if I'd signed. I ignored it.

The apartment she'd left behind felt cavernous. In the bedroom corner, the orange accent wall we'd painted together last summer now looked like a bruise against the white. It was supposed to be bold, cheerful. Now it was just another ghost.

On the dresser, Russell the goldfish swam in lazy circles, his orange scales catching the morning light. Sarah had won him at a carnival on our third date. "He'll outlive this relationship," she'd joked that night, drunk on cotton candy and new love. She'd meant it as a laugh at his supposed three-week lifespan.

Russell was still here. She wasn't.

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through photos: Sarah on the beach, Sarah at her sister's wedding, Sarah holding Russell in a plastic bag before we bought the proper bowl. The screen illuminated my face in the darkness, a silent reminder of everything I'd lost.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing at the water's surface. I dropped a pinch of food into his bowl. Some relationships lasted. Some didn't.

"Well, buddy," I said to him, finally tapping the note app and typing out the text I'd send to my lawyer in the morning. "Just us now."

Outside, the first hints of sunrise painted the sky. I wasn't running anymore—not literally, not metaphorically. Just a man in an empty apartment, feeding a fish who'd somehow become the most permanent thing in my life.