The Last Good Morning

The orange tabby sat on the windowsill, watching him with that particular look cats reserve for humans who've forgotten something essential. Martin hadn't forgotten. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

The vitamin C bottle stood on the counter, next to his wedding ring in its velvet box. Sarah had left three days ago—"I need to find myself again," she'd said, as if she'd misplaced something vital. The apartment felt cavernous without her particular chaos. Her yoga mats still leaned against the wall. Her half-empty coffee mugs waited in the sink like accusations.

He found himself running at 2 AM, the city streets slick with rain, his trainers slapping against pavement in a rhythm that almost drowned out the silence waiting at home. Running until his lungs burned, until the physical ache eclipsed everything else. Other joggers passed him with purposeful strides, training for marathons, chasing goals, moving toward something. Martin was just moving.

The cat followed him to the door each night, meowing insistently, as if reminding him that animals know when their humans are disintegrating. He'd fill her bowl, stroke her soft head, feel the ridiculousness of finding comfort in a creature who'd sleep on his face if he died alone in his sleep.

"You're better at this life thing than I am," he told her one morning, sitting on the floor with his back against the refrigerator, surrounded by unpacked boxes he'd given up on. The cat purred, kneading his thigh with needle-sharp claws. Pain he welcomed.

He started taking the vitamins again. Not because he believed in them, but because Sarah's voice echoed in his head: "You have to take care of yourself, Martin." Even when she wasn't there, she was there.

The cat stopped watching him with judgment after two weeks. Maybe she decided he was doing the best he could. Maybe cats simply surrender to the particular breakdowns of their humans. Martin kept running, kept taking the vitamins, kept waiting for the morning he'd wake up and not feel like something vital had been surgically removed from his chest.

Some mornings, that almost happened.