The Seventh Inning

Elena sat across from Marcus at the corner table, watching rain streak the diner window like tears on a face everyone pretends not to notice. The radio above the counter carried a baseball game—something about the bottom of the ninth, two outs, though she'd stopped following seasons since David died.

'You're going to let that get cold,' Marcus said, nodding at her plate.

She looked down at the spinach salad she'd ordered, the leaves already wilting under the weight of dressing she hadn't touched. 'I'm not hungry.' She'd stopped being hungry three months ago, around the time she learned that grief doesn't follow a timeline like everyone claims. It comes in waves, like the ocean she and David had visited on their anniversary, pulling you under when you think you've finally learned to swim.

Marcus reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm, his fingers calloused—hands that had fixed her sink last week, that had held her while she sobbed over a box of David's ties. Hands that made her feel guilty every time they touched her.

'He wouldn't want you to disappear, El.' His voice was gentle, the way David's had been when she'd wake from nightmares.

She pulled her hand away. 'You don't know what he'd want.' But the truth was, David would have wanted exactly this: for her to keep living, even if every day felt like walking through deep water. He would have wanted her to notice how Marcus looked at her when she wasn't watching, how he remembered how she took her coffee, how he'd driven her to every radiation appointment even though they'd only been dating three months when David got sick.

The radio announcer shouted something about a home run. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed. Life went on around them, indifferent and continuous.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I keep waiting for it to stop hurting. Like baseball season ending. But it doesn't work like that.' She pushed the spinach aside. 'He's gone, Marcus. And I'm—'

'Still here.' He didn't retreat. 'And so am I. If you'll let me be.'

She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since David's death. Marcus, with his quiet patience and his terrible cooking. Marcus, who somehow knew that sometimes you don't need words, just someone to sit beside you in the dark while you listen to baseball games you don't care about, eating food you can't taste, waiting for whatever comes next.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, something small and fragile shifted in her chest.

'Stay,' she said. 'Please.'