The Last Papaya

The cat stared at me from across the room, its yellow eyes accusatory. Marcus had taken everything else—the furniture, the art, even the coffee maker—but he'd left Bixby behind. Seven years together, and our shared life now fit in a cardboard box by the door.

My iPhone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up with another text from him: 'Need the HDMI cable for the presentation.' Always work. Always some goddamn emergency that required his immediate attention, just never to me.

I'd spent the morning swimming laps at the YMCA, trying to exhaust myself into numbness. The water had been cold, the lane lines blurring as I counted strokes—left, right, breathe, repeat. But here I was, still feeling everything.

On the kitchen counter sat the papaya we'd bought yesterday at that farmer's market we always meant to visit more often. It was perfectly ripe now, the skin yellowing at the edges, fragrant in the stale apartment air. We'd planned to eat it together for breakfast, something simple and sweet before his business trip. Instead, I'd woken up to a note and empty closet space.

I sliced the papaya open, scooped out the black seeds with a spoon, and ate it standing up in the empty kitchen. It tasted like loss—the sweetness curdling into something metallic on my tongue. Bixby jumped onto the counter, headbutting my hand, demanding attention like he always did when the apartment got too quiet.

'Yeah, I know,' I whispered, scratching behind his ears. 'He's not coming back.'

I texted Marcus back: 'Cabinet above the fridge.' Then I blocked his number, turned off my phone, and finished the papaya while the cat watched, finally satisfied that someone was staying.