The Last Papaya

Maya stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, the glow of the refrigerator illuminating a papaya that had sat on her counter for three weeks. It was the last thing Carlos had bought before leaving. 'For your health,' he'd said, like **vitamin** supplements could fix what was broken between them. She'd laughed then, but now the joke felt hollow. She sliced the fruit open, black seeds spilling onto the cutting board like rejected promises. Her **palm** pressed against the counter, steadying herself. At work that day, her boss had offered her a promotion—the same position Carlos had wanted, the one that had driven him to their competitor's firm. She hadn't told him about the offer. Hadn't told him about the **orange** envelope from HR either, the one containing a new contract that would finally give her the recognition she'd spent a decade earning. Outside, the streetlights cast the same sickly hue across her empty living room. She took a bite of the papaya—sweet, slightly fermented, like something trying desperately to be something else. The apartment felt too quiet. She picked up her phone and scrolled to his name, her thumb hovering over the call button. The papaya's flesh was soft against her tongue, almost apologetic. She deleted his contact instead.