The Last Supper of Forgotten Things

The **vitamin** D supplements sat on the counter like accusation, three bottles deep—his purchase, his habit, now abandoned with the same casual cruelty he'd shown their marriage. Sarah swept them into the trash, watching the white capsules cascade like forgotten promises. Six years of mornings watching him swallow them while she brewed coffee, his back to her, already mentally somewhere else.

She moved to the entertainment center, where the HDMI **cable** still snaked behind the TV, a black umbilical cord connecting them to nothing at all. They'd argued about which one to buy—he wanted the expensive gold-plated version that promised clearer picture quality, as though their life together needed higher definition. She'd insisted on the basic one. Now it would serve whoever bought this place, whoever wanted sharper images of their own making.

The **goldfish** bowl sat on the windowsill, its solitary inhabitant circling in endless, meaningless loops. Comet was a wedding gift from her sister, a living symbol of their supposed future together. "If you can keep a fish alive, you can keep anything alive," Sarah had said when she brought it home. But the fish had outlasted them, its orange scales dimming in the afternoon light, its mouth opening and closing in silent judgment of her failure.

Her phone buzzed—a text from him. "Left my **iPhone** charger. Can I come by tomorrow?" She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering. He wanted to retrieve his charger, as though that was the only thing powering their shared life. The device itself was gone, upgraded months ago, but the charger remained—a final tether, one last excuse to see her, to explain, to apologize, or perhaps just to confirm she was still real, still here, still waiting.

Sarah walked to the window. Outside, a **fox** trotted across the lawn, its russet coat bright against the dying grass. It paused, nose lifted to catch some scent on the wind—something Sarah couldn't smell, something the fox needed to survive. Then it vanished into the woods between their property and the neighbors', wild and unencumbered and exactly where it needed to be.

She typed back: "Don't bother. I'll leave it outside."

The fish circled its bowl. The fox ran free. And Sarah finally understood: some things are meant to be kept alive, and others are meant to be let go.