The Last Supper at Frank's

The restaurant was nearly empty, just the hum of refrigeration and Carlos polishing glasses behind the bar. Elena sat across from me, her palm resting on the white tablecloth, fingers slightly curled—like she was holding something invisible.

"You look like a zombie," she said, not unkindly. "When was the last time you slept?"

I laughed, but it came out hollow. "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday." The merger had been consuming me for months, twelve-hour days of reviewing contracts and soothing egos. My vitamin D levels were probably nonexistent.

"This was a mistake," I said, pushing my untouched pasta aside. "I can't do it anymore."

Elena's expression didn't change. She'd heard this before—three years of me promising to leave the firm, to write, to live. Each time, I'd gone back, seduced by the bonus, the prestige, the golden handcuffs that felt increasingly like lead.

"Remember that goldfish we won at the fair?" she asked suddenly. "The one that lived for five years against all odds?"

"What about it?"

"You fed it every morning before work. Even when you were running late. Even when you hated your job then, too. You cared about something small. Something helpless."

Her palm turned over, open now. Waiting.

"I met someone," I admitted. "At work. She understands the hours. The pressure. It's easy."

"Bullshit." Elena stood up, chair scraping against the floor. Carlos looked up briefly. "You're not leaving because you found someone easier. You're leaving because you're finally becoming who you actually are."

The truth of it hit me like cold water. I wasn't a zombie because of overwork. I was a zombie because I'd been dead inside for years, and Elena had been the only thing keeping me upright.

"Wait," I said, but she was already walking toward the door. "Please."

She paused, hand on the handle. Outside, rain streaked the glass like tears.

"Feed the fish," she said without turning around. "Or don't. But stop pretending you're someone who will."

The door closed behind her. Carlos returned to his glasses. I sat alone in the empty restaurant, understanding for the first time that some things, once dead, don't come back—not with vitamins, not with promises, not with love. The goldfish had died two years ago. I'd been the one who forgot to feed it.