The Goldfish Years

The apartment felt too large without him. Elena moved through rooms like a **zombie**, her body performing the motions of living while her mind remained frozen in that moment when he'd said "I think we need different things" over takeout Thai food, his voice gentle enough to make it worse.

Her **cat**, Bast, wound between her ankles, purring. The only creature who still wanted something from her.

They'd bought a **goldfish** together three years ago, on one of those weekends when love felt like something you could crystallize and keep. "Goldfish have terrible memories," David had said, pouring flakes into the bowl they'd picked out at IKEA. "Maybe they're the lucky ones."

The fish had lasted two weeks.

Now she stood before the bathroom mirror, running a brush through her **hair** until her scalp stung. She'd cut it short after he left, as if she could excise him strand by strand. But she still caught his scent on pillows she hadn't washed, still reached for him in sleep.

Her phone buzzed. A text from David: "I found the box. Your stuff. Should I mail it or...?"

Elena typed: Burn it. Then deleted. Typed: Keep it. Deleted.

She wasn't **swimming** toward anything anymore. Just treading water in the deep end where he'd left her, watching ripples spread outward until they disappeared.

Bast meowed, demanding dinner. Elena set down the phone, the screen darkening like a closing eye. Some things you didn't get to keep. Some memories were goldfish that forgot you, and others were the ones doing the forgetting.