The Last Breakfast

Elena stood at the kitchen counter, slicing the papaya with practiced precision. The orange light of dawn filtered through blinds they'd never quite agreed on—Marcus wanted sheer, she wanted blackout. Now, in three hours, he'd be gone for good.

"You're doing that thing again," Marcus said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was wet from the shower, water droplets collecting on his collarbone like unspoken apologies.

"What thing?" She didn't look up.

"The thing where you pretend everything's normal. Making breakfast like we're just another Tuesday couple."

Well, they weren't. The papaya was ripe—overripe, really—soft and yielding under her knife. She'd bought it yesterday, impulsively, thinking they'd share it. Now she'd eat it alone, or maybe not at all.

Their cat, Luna, wound between Marcus's legs, purring like a tiny, traitorous engine. She didn't know they were dissolving. She just knew someone was usually home to feed her.

"I watched your zombie show last night," Elena said, finally meeting his eyes. "The one you've been binging. They're all just walking around, half-alive, looking for something to consume."

Marcus laughed, startled. "That's your takeaway?"

"It's how I've felt for months. Like we've been eating each other's brains without noticing."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The papaya sat exposed on the cutting board, its black seeds staring up like accusations. Outside, the world continued—people commuting, living, dying. Somewhere, someone was falling in love. Someone else was saying goodbye for the last time.

"The movers will be here at eleven," Marcus said quietly. "I left my key on the counter."

"Okay."

"Elena—"

"Just go, Marcus. Please."

He did. The front door clicked shut, final and absolute. Luna meowed once, confused, then jumped onto the counter to investigate the abandoned papaya. Elena watched her cat's rough pink tongue sample the fruit's exposed flesh, and something in her chest cracked open.

She turned on the faucet and let the water run, washing away the sweet, sticky evidence of what might have been—of what she'd thought, just yesterday, might still be worth saving.