The Last Living Thing

Maya stared at the cable coiled on the floor like a dead snake, HDMI end poking toward her like an accusation. Three months since she'd disconnected the television. Three months since Marcus had moved out, taking his gaming consoles and leaving behind this tangled reminder of all the nights they'd spent side by side, not touching, illuminated by blue light.

Now she moved through her apartment like a zombie—up at six, subway to Midtown, spreadsheet to spreadsheet, subway back, wine, sleep, repeat. Her coworkers still asked how she was, still seemed not to notice that the person who used to organize happy hours and bring in homemade cookies had been replaced by this hollowed-out thing that vaguely resembled her.

Only Buster seemed to notice. Her elderly golden retriever had stopped sleeping in his bed and instead curled against her hip every night, his warm weight the only thing anchoring her to herself. Tonight he nudged her hand with his wet nose, whining softly, and Maya realized she'd forgotten to feed him.

Again.

"I'm sorry, buddy," she whispered, her voice rusty from disuse. "I'm so sorry."

She moved to the kitchen on autopilot, measuring his kibble with the same precision she used to forecast Q3 revenue. On the counter sat the vitamin supplements her mother had sent—"For stress, mija, for energy"—little amber bottles that promised to fix what broke in her if only she remembered to take them daily. She dry-swallowed three: D for the sunlight she never saw, B-complex for the nervous system that felt constantly frayed, magnesium for the sleep that never came.

Buster ate with his usual enthusiasm, the crunch of kibble the loudest sound in the apartment. Outside, siren wailed, and Maya had the sudden urge to pull the cable from the wall—to disconnect completely from the grid that kept her functioning but not alive. Instead she sat on the floor and buried her face in Buster's warm fur, breathing him in: earth and sleep and unconditional devotion, the only thing in her life that couldn't be measured in metrics or optimized for efficiency.

"You're the only real thing left," she said into his golden coat. "You and me, buddy. You and me."

He licked her cheek, and for the first time in three months, Maya felt something stir inside her chest—small, fragile, but undeniable. Not alive yet, perhaps, but no longer entirely dead.