The Last Inning

The orange light of sunset hit the living room wall where the cable box blinked its silent accusation. Three days since she left, and Sarah still hadn't called.

My cat, Buster, watched from his perch on the windowsill—probably the only honest relationship left in my life. He didn't care about my failures or the apartment's suffocating silence. He just wanted his dinner.

I turned on the TV, flipping past a baseball game that should have felt comforting. Instead, the crack of the bat and crowd cheers made my chest hollow. That had been our thing—Megan and me, wrapped in blankets, watching the playoffs like they mattered. Now it was just noise.

My phone buzzed. Mark, calling to check in. Mark, who'd warned me about Megan from the start. Mark, who was probably being a better friend than I deserved.

"You coming to the game tomorrow?" he asked. "Front row seats."

"I don't think I'm up for baseball right now."

"It's not about the game. It's about not being alone with your thoughts. Trust me."

I looked at the orange peel on the counter, dried and curled like something forgotten. Megan had left it there Sunday morning, grabbing her keys with that tight smile that meant everything was fine, nothing was fine, she was already gone in her head.

"I'll be there," I said.

Buster meowed, jumping down and weaving through my legs. The cable box continued its steady blink, marking time in a world that kept moving whether I was ready or not. Tomorrow, I'd sit in the stands with Mark. I'd eat overpriced food and pretend to care about balls and strikes. Maybe eventually, I'd actually start living again.

For tonight, though, there was just the orange light fading to gray, and a cat who needed dinner, and the slow realization that some innings end whether you're ready to leave the field or not.