The Last Photo

The spinach had gone slimy in the crisper drawer, much like everything else in Mara's life lately. She stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, phone in hand, scrolling through photos of David—the timestamp on the last one showing exactly three weeks since he'd said he needed space. The iPhone felt heavier than it should, a stone in her palm.

Her cat, Barnaby, wound around her ankles, meowing insistently. At least someone still wanted her attention. She'd tried to explain to her therapist that she felt like a zombie going through the motions—wake, work, stare at ceiling, sleep—but the clinical term "emotional numbness" didn't capture the hollow ache behind her sternum.

The last good photo of David was from their cabin trip. He'd captured a black bear through the kitchen window, standing on hind legs to reach the bird feeder. They'd laughed about it later, safe inside with wine. Now she wondered if the bear had been the lucky one—wild, purposeful, knowing exactly what it wanted.

"You look like shit," she told her reflection in the darkened window.

The spinach she'd planned for tonight's dinner sat in a colander, mocking her attempt at self-care. David had always been the cook. Without him, she'd forgotten how to nourish herself in more ways than one.

Her thumb hovered over his contact. Three weeks of silence. Was he coming back? Was this it? The not-knowing was eating her alive.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter, knocking her phone to the floor. It landed screen-up, still showing David's face.

"You're right," she whispered to the cat. "Fuck this."

She deleted the photo. Then the next one. Then all of them. By morning, she'd make herself that damn spinach salad, properly this time. The bear in the photo had known what it wanted. So would she.