The Last Morning Together

Elena woke to find Marcus already gone from their bed. Again. She padded through the silent house, feet bare on cold hardwood, feeling like a zombie from those old movies they used to mock together—hollowed out, moving on instinct alone.

In the kitchen, she found his note on the counter: *Padel at 9. Don't wait up.* The sport had become his religion these past six months, his Sunday morning escape from the weight of everything they'd stopped saying to each other. She'd asked him once, early on, what he loved about it. The satisfaction of a perfect smash, he'd said, palm against hers. Now she wondered who he imagined across the net from him.

She opened the fridge. A bag of spinach sat wilting on the shelf, forgotten from Thursday's aborted attempt at cooking together. They'd fought over the recipe book, of all things—him criticizing her precision, her resenting his sudden interest after twelve years of eating whatever she put in front of him. The spinach had rotted while they slept in separate rooms.

Downstairs, the coffee shop where they'd had their first date. A red fox darted across the street, tail flashing like a warning. Elena watched it slip between buildings and thought about how easily things slipped away when you stopped paying attention. A marriage. A habit. A person.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: *Breakfast after?* She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, something vicious and honest rising in her throat. Instead she typed: *Not today.*

She started running without deciding to, past the café, past the padel club where she could hear the rhythmic thwack of balls against glass. Her chest burned. The fox watched from an alleyway as she sprinted past, as if recognizing something kin in her desperate motion.

Three miles later, she bent over her knees, gasping. Her phone showed three missed calls. A text: *We need to talk.*

Elena straightened up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The spinach wasn't the only thing that needed throwing out. She turned toward home, running faster now, as if she could outrace whatever came next.