The Goldfish on the Windowsill

Mara stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, staring at the bag of spinach wilting on the counter. It had been three days since David left, taking most of the furniture but leaving behind his childhood goldfish—now floating near the surface of its bowl, listless and orange against the dark windowsill.

She should call him about the fish. They'd forgotten it in the chaos of his departure, like so many other things. Her iPhone sat on the counter, screen dark, untouched for hours. The same device that had illuminated their fights in blue light, that had captured her crying in bathroom mirrors after dinner parties gone wrong, that had held his final text: *I can't do this anymore.*

A movement outside caught her eye. A fox crept along the fence line, its russet coat glowing under the streetlamp. It moved with purpose, head held high, utterly unbothered by domestication or heartbreak. She watched it disappear into the neighbor's yard, wild and leaving nothing behind.

The goldfish stirred, breaking the surface with a small gulp.

"You too, huh?" she whispered. "Waiting for someone who won't come back."

She'd bought the spinach for a salad she never made, trying to be the kind of woman who ate deliberately and well, who didn't drink wine straight from the bottle while scrolling through his ex-girlfriend's Instagram. The bag was still sealed, full of false promises.

Outside, the fox's distant bark echoed through the empty neighborhood. The fish swam to the bottom of its bowl. Mara picked up her phone, opened David's contact, and pressed delete.

Then she took the spinach outside and scattered it for the fox.