The Last Text Message

The iPhone lay on her nightstand, its screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications she couldn't bring herself to read. Three weeks since Mark moved out, and still his ghost haunted her apartment in the most mundane ways.

"You've got to be kidding me," Sarah muttered, staring at the chaos in her living room. Her friend Elena had promised to help her sort through the accumulated debris of seven years together, but instead stood in the doorway, nursing a hangover and looking vaguely horrified.

"I told you, tequila was a mistake," Elena groaned. "Why do we still have all this crap?"

Sarah sank onto the sofa, which suddenly seemed too large without his habitual sprawl. "Sentimental attachment. Stupidity. Take your pick."

Mittens, their aging cat, wound around her legs, purring with the self-righteousness of creatures who'd witnessed too many arguments. The dog—a rescue Mark had insisted on despite Sarah's protests—watched them from his bed, head resting on paws that had once belonged to someone else.

"He took the dog, right?" Elena asked, finally stepping into the room.

"Wednesday and alternate weekends. Like a divorced parent." Sarah's voice cracked. "I'm essentially a pet custody arrangement."

The iPhone chimed again. Sarah's stomach tightened. It could be him—asking about something he'd left behind, or worse, wanting to talk. Their last conversation had been brutal, the kind where you say things you can never unsay, words like bullets that find their mark.

"You going to check that?" Elena nodded at the phone.

"What's the point? Either he's drunk-texting me again, or he wants his grandmother's lamp back."

"Or maybe he realizes he made the biggest mistake of his life." Elena's tone was gentle, but the underlying truth hit harder. "You guys were good together."

"Were. Past tense." Sarah stood up, restless suddenly. "I feel like I'm standing in front of a bull, waiting for it to charge. One wrong move and everything tramples."

"That's the most disturbing metaphor you've used today."

"It's how I feel." Sarah's phone chimed again, insistent. "Fine. I'll check it."

The screen showed a message from an unknown number: "Hey, think you left something at the bar last night."

Relief washed over her—then confusion, then a flicker of something dangerously like hope. "Not Mark."

"New beginning?" Elena raised an eyebrow.

"Or just another complication." Sarah set the phone down, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. "Whatever. Come help me decide what to do with his camping gear."

"I was afraid you'd say that."