The Goldfish Watched

Elena stood by the window, watching the goldfish circle its bowl in endless, silent loops. Three months since Tomas left, and the apartment still held his ghost—especially in this room, where the cable from his headphones lay coiled like a dark snake on the floor, unmoved.

She touched the brim of his fedora, still hanging on the hook beside the door. She couldn't bring herself to move it. Couldn't move much of anything, really.

"You coming?" Marcos called from the doorway. "The padel court closes in an hour."

She turned. Marcos, twelve years her junior, all loose limbs and easy smiles. He didn't understand why she still wore Tomas's hat sometimes. Why she cooked spinach the way Tomas had loved it, even though Marcos hated it. Why she kept that damn goldfish alive when everything else in her life had already died.

"Give me a minute," she said.

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

Tomas had been dead four years before he finally left—that's how she thought of the divorce. The stroke at forty-two had taken his speech, his mobility, his dignity. Marcos had been his physical therapist, young and competent, bringing light into rooms that had grown too dark. And somewhere in the empty spaces where Tomas's laughter used to be, Elena had found herself reaching for Marcos's hand.

She'd thought it was beginning again.

But Marcos wanted to play padel on Saturdays. Wanted to try new restaurants. Wanted her to take down Tomas's hat.

The goldfish circled, oblivious.

"Elena?"

She looked at the cable still snaking across the floor. At the hat. At the spinach wilting in the fridge because Marcos wouldn't eat it and she couldn't stop buying it.

Some loves don't end, she realized. They just circle endlessly, like fish in a bowl, while you stand on the outside watching and wondering if anyone will ever remember to feed them.

"I'm not coming," she said.

Marcos sighed. "You can't live in the past forever, Elena."

"Watch me."

The goldfish swam on.