The Last Supper

Maya stared at the goldfish swimming endless circles in its bowl on the countertop. Three years she'd kept it alive—a small, orange miracle in a life where everything else had decayed.

"You're still here," she whispered, dropping a pinch of food. The fish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent gratitude.

Across the table, David sat with his back to her, packing a box. Not a lover, not a husband—just a friend who'd overstayed his welcome by eight months. His unemployment had become her problem, his melancholy her constant companion. Now he'd found a job two states away and was leaving in the morning.

"I made spinach and feta stuffed chicken," she said to his spine. "Your favorite."

He turned, and Maya saw it then—the thing she'd been refusing to see for months. David wasn't just sad; he was in love with her. He had been for years. And she had used him, used his devotion, used his presence as a buffer against loneliness, all the while knowing she would never, could never, love him back.

The spinach in the oven began to burn. She could smell it—bitter, acrid, the scent of her own selfishness reduced to ash.

"You should have told me," she said, and David's face crumbled.

"What would it have changed?"

"Nothing," she admitted. "But at least you would have heard me say no."

The goldfish continued its circles, oblivious to the small deaths happening around it. David finished packing his box in silence. They ate the burned spinach together, the bitterness somehow appropriate, and Maya realized that keeping people around just because you can—that's not friendship. That's just collection.

She watched him walk out the door, and something in her finally settled. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is let them swim away.