The Things We Keep

Maya stood in the bathroom at 2 AM, the fluorescent light flickering like a dying heartbeat. She'd pulled her wet **hair** back into a knot, droplets tracing the curve of her spine like tears she refused to cry. Three weeks after David moved out, and she was still navigating the architecture of loneliness.

On the counter, the amber **vitamin** jar sat untouched—his vitamins, actually. She'd thrown out everything else: his clothes, his books, that insufferable artisanal coffee. But the vitamins remained, a daily reminder of the man who believed in optimization while their marriage dissolved. He'd left because he couldn't handle her grief over the miscarriage, called it 'prolonged and unproductive.' The irony wasn't lost on her.

Her **iPhone** lit up with a notification. Her heart did that traitorous little skip, even now. Just a calendar reminder: 'Call Mom.' But for three seconds, she'd let herself believe it was him. That he'd realized what a mistake he'd made. That he'd come back to the apartment that now felt like a museum exhibit of their life together.

She turned on the faucet and cupped her hands under the cold **water**, letting it pool there before splashing her face. The mirror reflected a stranger—hollow-cheeked, eyes too old for thirty-four. She thought about those Japanese artists who repaired broken pottery with gold, embracing the cracks. Kintsugi. But nobody taught you how to gild the fractures in yourself.

Downstairs, the building's pipes groaned. Somewhere, a couple was fighting in another language. The city hummed with millions of people making it through the night. Maya reached for the vitamin jar and twisted the cap open, swallowing two capsules dry. Not his vitamins anymore. Just vitamins. A small thing, but maybe that's how you started.

She picked up her phone and deleted his contact. The empty contact card looked like freedom disguised as loss. Outside, rain began to fall, and for the first time in weeks, Maya didn't mind the sound of water against the window.