The Last Thursday

The goldfish swam in lazy circles, oblivious to the wreckage of the living room. Sarah had bought it for him two years ago—some joke about his short attention span, back when their shared jokes were affectionate rather than weapons.

Marcus stared at the orange fish while Sarah packed her suitcase in the bedroom.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the rain streaking down the windows. A summer storm had been brewing all day, the air thick and electric. He could feel it in his chest—that same pressure, that same sense of something about to break.

She emerged with her suitcase, her palm grazing the doorframe as she paused. The gesture was so familiar, so practiced, that Marcus felt physically ill.

"I left your vitamins on the counter," she said. "You'll forget."

"I won't forget."

"You always forget."

And there it was: the way she knew him better than he knew himself, the way she'd spent years compensating for his deficiencies. The way he'd let her.

"I don't want you to bear this alone," he said, hating the inadequacy of his own voice. "Whatever's wrong with us. With me."

"That's the thing, Marcus." She looked at the goldfish, now motionless in the sudden stillness of the room. "I've been bearing it for both of us. And I'm tired."

She left without another word. The door clicked shut with final precision. Marcus stood in the living room as the storm broke outside, thunder rattling the windows, and watched the goldfish resume its endless circling. He thought about how he'd forgotten to feed it yesterday. And the day before.

Some things survived on neglect. Some things didn't.

He picked up the vitamin bottle from the counter. Two capsules left. He dry-swallowed them both.