The Things We Leave Behind

The orange sat on the kitchen counter for three days, slowly softening in the afternoon sun. Marcus watched it from his spot on the sofa, where he'd been camped out since Sarah walked out with her suitcases and the cat. The cat—Barnaby—who had despised Marcus from day one, probably because Marcus was allergic and never tried to hide it.

"He'll come back," Sarah had said at the door. "Cats always return to where they're fed."

Marcus wasn't sure who she meant: the cat, or herself.

His phone buzzed—another Slack notification from work. The Q2 deliverables were due tomorrow, and his team was waiting on his final approval. He should be leading. Instead, he was staring at a piece of fruit that reminded him of their last real conversation, standing in this same kitchen, Sarah peeling the orange with deliberate precision, juice running down her wrist, saying she felt like she was always waiting for him to be present.

Outside, the neighbor's dog barked at nothing. A golden retriever named Rusty who greeted Marcus with equal enthusiasm whether he'd been gone five minutes or five months. That was the thing about dogs—they forgave everything. Cats held grudges. People, it turned out, did something in between.

Marcus's palm rested on the counter where Sarah's hand had been that night. He could almost feel the ghost of her warmth, the weight of unspoken things between them.

The orange had developed a soft spot now, a bruise where time had caught up with it. He picked it up, peeled it in the way she'd taught him, digging his thumb into the rind until it gave way. The scent hit him sharp and bright, cutting through the stale air of the apartment.

He ate a section, then another. The sweetness made his throat ache.

His phone buzzed again. Work could wait. The cat would come back if it wanted. Sarah might not. Some things, once they began to rot, you couldn't save them—you just had to taste them while you could, and let them go.