The Last Supper We Swallowed

I watched Marcus across the table, his mouth moving as he held court about the bull market—his favorite topic, the only thing that seemed to make his eyes light up anymore. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, handsome in that way that had first drawn me in eight years ago, before I realized his charm was as performative as his passion for economics.

"You have to ride the wave, Sarah," he said, gesturing with his fork. "The bull doesn't stop for anyone who hesitates."

Our cat, Barnaby, wound around my legs under the table, purring. He was the only one in this house who still seemed to genuinely like me, or maybe he just knew I was the one who filled his bowl. I'd found him three years ago, a stray kitten mewling in the rain. Marcus had sighed, said we weren't ready for responsibility, then proceeded to ignore Barnaby's existence except to complain about the shedding.

I pushed the spinach around on my plate—Marcus's new health obsession. The wilted greens looked like everything I'd been forcing myself to swallow for years: this relationship, this life, this carved-down version of myself I'd made palatable for him.

"We should renovate the kitchen," Marcus said. "Marble countertops. Something that says we've made it."

"I'm leaving," I said.

The silence was thick. Barnaby stopped purring. Marcus's fork froze, a piece of spinach clinging to the tines.

"What?"

"I'm leaving. After dinner. I've already got a place."

He laughed, sharp and dismissive. "You're joking. This again? We just discussed this—"

"We didn't discuss. You told me I was being emotional. That I needed to be more practical. Like you. Like the fucking bull market." I stood up, my chair scraping the floor. "I'm done being practical. I'm done pretending to want marble countertops when what I actually want is to feel something real again."

"You're being unreasonable. You always sabotage everything when things are good."

"This isn't good, Marcus. This is what good looks like to you. To me, it feels like I'm drowning."

I walked out, Barnaby trotting after me. In the car, with the cat carrier on the passenger seat and a small bag of my things in back, I finally breathed. The air tasted like possibility and fear and, for the first time in years, like something that was mine alone.

Behind me, Marcus was probably still at the table, his dinner getting cold, wondering how the bull market had failed to predict this.