The Papaya Incident

The vitamin D supplements sat between them on the nightstand, a beige cylinder of failed intentions. Sarah had started taking them when the doctors said 'try to relax,' as if relaxation could be manufactured in 400 IU capsules.

'Your hand,' Marco said, taking her palm in his. He traced the lifeline with his thumb, something he'd done a thousand times before. But tonight, the gesture felt rehearsed.

Their dog, Buster, whined at the door, sensing the tension that had settled like dust over everything they owned. Sarah ignored him. She was tired of caretaking.

'I bought papaya,' she said, pulling away. 'The woman at the market said it helps. She looked at me with these knowing eyes, like she could see right through my shirt to the empty space where life was supposed to be growing.' She let out a harsh laugh. 'I hate papaya.'

Marco said nothing. He just watched her, and in that moment, Sarah saw it: the way he'd begun to look at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. Not like a burden, exactly. But like something he was learning to live without. The realization hit her with the force of something wild — a bear waking from hibernation, hungry and disoriented.

'Stop looking at me like that,' she said.

'Like what?'

'Like you're already gone.' She stood up, knocking the vitamin bottle to the floor. The pills scattered across the hardwood like so many useless promises.

Marco didn't move to help her pick them up. 'Maybe I am,' he said softly.

Buster scratched at the door again, and this time Sarah let him out. Some things, she realized, were meant to wander.