The Last Orange of Winter

She stared at the vitamin on the kitchen counter — the sleek white pill that promised to fix what was broken inside. Divorce papers sat beside it, equally stark, equally insufficient.

Sarah hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Her body had become a hollow thing, sustained by coffee and the orange she peeled each morning, the citrus scent filling a kitchen that felt too large now that David's things were gone.

Milo, their cat, appeared in the doorway. His golden eyes watched her, as if asking where the other human had gone. He'd been David's birthday gift five years ago — a kitten in a box with a red ribbon, back when they still believed in forever symbols. Now Sarah wondered if Milo missed David, or if he simply sensed her own unraveling.

She extended her palm, and the cat pressed his head against it, his purr vibrating through her skin. This was intimacy now: the weight of an animal, the warmth of a hand that wasn't pushing away.

David had left for someone younger. Someone whose vitamins probably came in prettier bottles, whose life didn't smell like stale coffee and heartbreak.

Sarah popped the pill into her mouth. The orange burst on her tongue — sharp, bright, insistently alive. She had forgotten this: that the world kept offering small salvations. That morning came anyway. That cats still needed feeding. That you could survive the ending of one story simply by waking up to the next one.

She'd finish the orange. She'd take the vitamin. She'd call the lawyer.

The sunlight caught her hand, still holding the orange peel. For a moment, she imagined the creases on her palm as a map someone else might read, a future she couldn't yet see herself.

The cat wound through her legs, and Sarah stepped forward into the day.