The Last Orange Hour

Marcus sat on his living room floor surrounded by a tangle of ethernet cables, his knees stiff from hours under the desk. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—in the three weeks since Elena left. He'd been moving through his days like a zombie, his body performing routine tasks while his mind remained elsewhere, stuck in an endless loop of their last argument.

The orange sunset bled through his blinds, staining everything—the cables, his hands, the empty whiskey glass on the floor. Orange had been her favorite color. She'd worn that burnt-orange dress to their anniversary dinner, the one where she'd told him she was tired of coming second to his job, tired of him being physically present but emotionally absent. He remembered telling himself he'd fix it later, that he could always repair things tomorrow.

His phone buzzed—her sister, asking if he'd heard from her. Marcus stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the cable that connected his charger to the wall. That thin wire was the only thing tethering him to anything real anymore. He wanted to reply, but what could he say? That he finally understood what she meant about living like a zombie—about how you could be breathing and moving and still not be alive? That every orange sunset now felt like an accusation?

Instead, he typed: "Not yet." Then he added: "Tell her I'm sorry. For everything."

He pressed send and set the phone down. The last orange light faded from the room, leaving him in darkness with his cables and his regret. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he would do something differently. But tonight, he just sat there, feeling the weight of everything he hadn't said.