The Storm Between Us

The lightning flashed across the windows of our eighth-floor apartment, illuminating everything in harsh white: the half-packed boxes, his side of the bed already stripped bare, the cat—my cat, technically—watching us from her perch on the bookshelf like she'd been expecting this all along.

"You're really doing this," I said. Not a question.

Marcus stood by the door, his thumb scrolling through his iPhone, face bathed in that familiar blue glow that had replaced my company these past six months. He wouldn't look at me. He never looked at me anymore, not really. Not since the promotion, not since he started staying late, not since the texts began arriving at midnight.

"It's not the right time, Elena. You know that."

Another flash of lightning. This time I counted—One, two, three—thunder rattled the windowpanes.

On the kitchen counter sat the abandoned orange I'd peeled for him that morning, segments drying in the stagnant air, a small offering he'd refused. That was us in microcosm: me leaving sustenance, him too preoccupied to notice.

The cat jumped down, winding between my legs, purring like a small engine. At least someone still wanted to be here.

"Since when is now not the right time?" I asked, my voice steady despite the hollow opening up inside me. "Since you met her? Since the emails? Since you stopped coming to bed?"

His thumb stilled. Finally, he looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the worst part was that he meant it. Sorry and leaving anyway. Sorry and still choosing himself, still choosing the exit, still choosing convenience over the messy work of staying.

I thought about saying all the things I'd rehearsed in the bathroom mirror: the accusations, the bargaining, the desperate pleas. But as another flash of lightning split the sky—closer now, the thunder nearly instantaneous—I realized something crucial: I didn't want to be chosen out of guilt.

"Take your phone," I said. "Take the job. Just go."

He hesitated, something flickering across his face. Regret? Relief? I couldn't tell anymore. Then he opened the door, and the storm outside rushed in to fill the silence between us.

The cat rubbed against my ankle as his footsteps faded down the hall. I picked up the abandoned orange, ate one segment, and threw the rest in the trash. It was bitter, but at least it was real.