The Last Supper on Mercer Street

The goldfish had been floating belly-up for three days before Maya finally noticed.

"He's gone," she said, staring into the bowl on the windowsill. Bubbles, a rescue from her nephew's failed science fair project, had outlived two relationships and one career change. Now he was finally dead.

Elena didn't look up from her wine. "Everything dies, Maya. Even goldfish. Even whatever this is."

The storm outside chose that moment to split the sky. Lightning flashed through the loft's floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating everything Maya didn't want to see: the dust on the bookshelves they'd bought together at IKEA seven years ago, the way Elena's shoulders slumped, the absence of any personal photos on her side of what used to be their shared space.

"I saw the texts," Maya said quietly.

Elena's hand froze around her glass.

"You went through my phone?"

"Your laptop was open. The messages popped up. Some friend you are."

Elena laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Friend? Is that what we are now? After six months of you sleeping in the guest room and me pretending not to hear you cry in the shower? We haven't been friends in a year, Maya. We're roommates who used to be in love."

The truth of it struck like lightning, sudden and blinding. Maya had been holding onto the label—friend—because it was easier than admitting they'd become strangers who shared a lease.

"I met someone," Elena said. "Online. We've been talking for months. She gets me. She asks about my day."

"And I stopped doing that."

"You stopped doing everything except existing in this apartment and waiting for life to happen to you."

Maya looked at the dead goldfish again. At least Bubbles had kept swimming until the end.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Elena said. "Found a sublet. You can have the place."

"What about our security deposit?"

"Fuck the security deposit."

Another flash of lightning. The power flickered and died, leaving them in darkness with only the storm's ambient glow and their own breathing.

"Maya?" Elena's voice came from the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Flush the fish. Please. It's starting to smell."

Maya stood and crossed to the windowsill, lifting the bowl with both hands. In the bathroom, she watched the tiny orange body spiral down the drain, joining all the other things they'd let die between them.

When she returned, Elena was at the door, coat already on.

"I'll send you the rest of my stuff," she said, and then the door clicked shut, and Maya was alone with the storm and the sudden, terrible clarity of what it means to outlive a friendship you once thought would last forever.