The papaya on the counter

The first **lightning** strike illuminated everything Mara didn't want to see: the half-empty closet, his laptop still open to her emails, the **papaya** she'd bought two days ago now rotting on the counter. She'd spent three years convincing herself that compromise was the same thing as maturity.

"You're being unreasonable," David said, his voice calibrated to that register of patience that felt more like condescension. He was coiling the HDMI **cable** with obsessive precision, the way he did everything—neatly, without urgency, as though she weren't standing in their bedroom with a suitcase.

"Am I?" Mara laughed, and it came out harsher than she intended. "Or am I finally done playing the role of the understanding partner while you figure out if you're ready to commit?"

Their **cat**, Luna, wound between Mara's ankles, sensing the tremor in the air. The animal had more emotional intelligence than David sometimes. Outside, thunder rattled the windowpane.

"I told you I needed time," he said, not looking at her. "You knew this when we moved in together."

"I also knew you loved me. Or I thought I did." She shouldered her bag. "You know what my father used to say? 'You can't wrestle a **bull** that doesn't want to be wrestled.' I thought he was talking about my career. Turns out, he meant you."

David froze, the cable forgotten in his hands. The second lightning strike flashed, and for a moment, his expression cracked open—something like fear, or maybe just the fear of losing something he'd taken for granted.

"Mara, don't—"

"I already did," she said. "Three years ago. I'm just catching up now."

She walked out into the storm, and for the first time in months, she felt like herself. The papaya could rot. She would buy fresh fruit in her own place.