The Last Good Connection

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of running footsteps on the pavement below—someone late, someone fleeing, someone running toward something they desperately hoped was better than what they left behind.

Mara sat on the floor with her back against the couch, staring at the tangled cable behind the television. She'd been trying to fix the connection for three hours, her fingers growing stiff, the orange light on the modem blinking at her like a judgmental eye.

Her phone buzzed. David again.

She'd told him she needed space. She'd told him she needed to think. What she hadn't told him was that she'd stopped feeling anything months ago—numb as a limb fallen asleep, pins and needles when she tried to move, nothing when she stayed still.

The cable finally clicked into place. The modem's orange light turned steady blue. Connection restored.

She opened her laptop and pulled up the video file she'd been avoiding. It was from last Christmas, David's mother's birthday. Mara watched herself on screen, smiling at someone's joke, holding a glass of white water with a lemon wedge because she'd given up drinking for David, given up smoking for David, given up staying up until 3 AM writing poetry because David said it made her erratic the next day.

In the video, David leaned over and kissed her cheek. She'd turned toward him, and for just a second, the camera caught her face before the smile snapped back into place. Empty. Exhausted. A person running on fumes and pretending it was sustainable.

She paused the video. Her reflection in the dark screen showed her the same face.

Mara stood up and walked to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water from the tap, watched it swirl, remembered being eight years old and her father telling her that water was the only thing that could wash things clean, that everything else just moved the dirt around.

She opened the cabinet where she'd hidden the bottle of orange soda—her favorite, the thing David called garbage and refused to keep in the house. The can was cold. She popped the tab and the sound was sharp, sudden, like a small breakdown.

The first sip was artificial and perfect. She stood at the window, watching the city lights blur through tears she hadn't realized were crying, and understood that some connections weren't worth keeping, no matter how many hours you spent trying to make them work.

She picked up her phone and typed a message, then deleted it. Then typed it again.

I'm not coming back.

The orange soda can sat on the counter, next to a glass of water that would never be drunk. Somewhere below, the running footsteps had stopped. The city held its breath. For the first time in months, so did she—finally, quietly, alone.