The Last Orange

The vitamin C bottle sat on her nightstand, next to the wedding photo from three years ago. Elena stared at both, the hollow ache in her chest expanding.

Mark was downstairs, staring at the television, moving through his days with the glassy-eyed shuffle of a zombie. No, she corrected herself — that was unfair to zombies. At least zombies were driven by something. Mark was just... hollowed out. The consulting firm had drained him dry, leaving a shell who came home, microwaved dinner, and slept.

She remembered when they'd had passion. Arguments, sex, laughter — all the messy intensity of being alive. Now they just... existed in the same space.

"You still taking those?" Mark's voice floated up the stairs. He hadn't noticed she was crying.

"Doctor says they help," she called back. She wasn't taking vitamins anymore. She was keeping count — how many days of numbness before she packed her bags.

She went downstairs. Mark was on the couch, the blue TV light flickering across his face. On the table sat an orange, something he'd bought last week, forgotten. It was already softening, dark spots blooming on its skin like bruises.

"Mark.""Hmm?""Do you remember what orange blossoms smell like?""What?" He finally looked at her. "Like air freshener?""No. Like the tree behind our first apartment. The one you climbed to get me fruit that time.""Elena, I'm tired.""You're always tired." She picked up the orange. It felt heavy in her hand, full of seeds she'd never planted. "This was going to be ours. We talked about planting a grove. Remember?""We can't even keep houseplants alive.""That's not the point." She squeezed the orange, juice dripping onto her fingers, sticky and bittersweet. "The point is we stopped dreaming.""Jesus, here we go." He turned back to the TV. "Can we just have a normal evening?""No." She set the orange down carefully. "No, we can't.""What does that mean?""It means I'm done living with a zombie.""A zombie?" His voice sharpened. "I'm working myself to death so we can afford this house, and you're comparing me to a—""You're not here!" The words tore out of her. "You haven't been here in months. I could die in this kitchen and you wouldn't notice until you got hungry."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

"I'm leaving," she said.

"For where?""Anywhere you aren't." She wiped her sticky hands on her jeans. "I'd rather be alone than lonely with you."

She packed while he sat on the couch, watching commercials for depression medication and vitamin supplements. She didn't take the wedding photo. She didn't take the vitamins. She just left.

It was dark outside. The air smelled like rain, like endings, like something finally breaking. For the first time in two years, Elena could breathe.