The Last Unread Message

The dog, Buster, had been Sarah's idea. A rescue with anxiety issues to match my own. Now she was gone, and I was left with a trembling terrier mix who'd destroyed three pairs of loafers and my last shred of dignity.

My iPhone buzzed on the nightstand at 3 AM. Another notification from her. 'Can we talk?' it read, followed by 'I think I made a mistake.' I stared at the screen until it went dark, watching my distorted reflection in the glass. Forty-two years old and the only thing waiting for me in the morning was a dog who'd surely pissed on the rug again and a corporate restructuring meeting where I'd likely be let go.

The padel league had been my attempt at reinvention. Something to say I still had interests, still had vitality, still had something to offer beyond my capacity to earn and disappoint. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I'd drive to the club in my leased BMW, sliding across the court while men my age talked about private schools and second homes. I was terrible at it—my backhand kept hitting the wire fence—but showing up felt like proof of life.

That's where I met Elena. Thirty-six, recently divorced, with a laugh that sounded like something she hadn't used enough lately. We'd played mixed doubles, her partner canceling last minute. Something about how she moved—deliberate but not careful—made me wonder if she, too, was practicing at being alive again.

Now my iPhone showed she'd viewed my Instagram story. A photo of Buster sleeping on my chest, captioned: 'The only one who stayed.' It was pathetic. I knew it was pathetic. But some part of me wanted her to see it, wanted to broadcast my loneliness like a distress signal.

Buster stirred at my feet, making that soft whining sound that meant he needed to go out. I clipped on his leash and we walked through the sleeping neighborhood, past houses where people slept beside spouses or alone or with whatever arrangements they'd made work. My phone pinged again—Elena. 'Want to hit some balls tomorrow morning?'

I stood there under the streetlamp, the dog tugging toward his favorite tree, and realized I had to choose: keep waiting for someone who'd already left me, or show up to be terrible at something with someone who might not. The choice, it turned out, was simple.