The Last Cable Cut

Maya stood in her apartment at 2 AM, clutching the bottle of vitamin D supplements like they were the last prayer she'd ever utter. The expiration date had passed three months ago—much like her relationship with Sarah.

She'd met Sarah at a coworking space in Williamsburg, back when she still believed in the transformative power of wellness culture and good lighting. Sarah had been wearing that oversized thrift store cardigan, the one that smelled like cedar and old books, and had offered Maya a homemade energy ball that tasted like depression and optimism blended together.

"You look like you need this," Sarah had said, pressing the vitamin into her palm during their third coffee meeting. "For the darkness."

The darkness had indeed come, though not in the form Sarah had meant. It had come six months later when Maya discovered that Sarah's 'open relationship' philosophy apparently didn't extend to honesty about the other person.

Now, her iPhone sat on the counter like a dead insect, its screen cracked during what she now referred to as The Incident at Prospect Park. Sarah had been walking someone else's dog—a golden retriever named Cosmic, because irony was dead—when Maya had stumbled upon them. Cosmic had licked Maya's hand with that particular enthusiasm only dogs possess, that complete unawareness of human heartbreak, while Sarah had stood there holding Cosmic's leash like she was the one who'd been betrayed.

"We're still friends," Sarah had said later, over text. "You're my best friend."

Friend. The word sat in Maya's mouth like something sour. She had blocked Sarah's number that night, but sometimes she still found herself scrolling through old messages, reading the parts where Sarah had called her brilliant, luminous, necessary. Now she was just necessary to nobody.

The cable technician was coming at 9 AM to disconnect everything. Maya had decided to cut the cord completely—no internet, no streaming services, no digital breadcrumbs. Just her, the expired vitamins, and the silence she'd been avoiding for thirty-six years.

She popped a vitamin into her mouth anyway. Maybe expired supplements were exactly what she deserved. Maybe the darkness required something a little past its prime too.

Outside, a dog barked—something small and persistent. Maya pressed her forehead against the cold window. Somewhere in this city of eight million people, someone was walking someone else's dog, someone was texting someone else's friend, someone was believing in something that would eventually break them.

She swallowed the vitamin dry. In the morning, she would disconnect everything. But tonight, she would stand here in the blue light of her phone's cracked screen, and she would not be okay with any of it.