The Things We Leave Behind

The apartment felt too large without him. That was the first thought that struck Maya when she walked through the door at 2 AM, still wearing her work clothes, carrying a box of his things she'd collected from his office.

His cat, Barnaby — a judgmental orange tabby who'd tolerated her at best — wound around her ankles, meowing for dinner. The cat had stayed. That was the compromise they'd made during the breakup: he kept the furniture, she kept the cat. Some days she wondered which of them had gotten the worse deal.

Her iphone buzzed in her pocket. Sarah, her oldest friend, checking in after the text she'd sent earlier.

'You okay? Do you need me to come over?'

Maya stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She wasn't okay. But she didn't need Sarah to come over and drink wine and tell her that everything happened for a reason, that some people weren't meant to stay. Some platitudes didn't stick anymore.

She set the phone on the counter and walked to the window. Their apartment — hers now — faced an alley that backed onto a small strip of woods. She'd seen a fox there once, at dusk, sleek and russet, pausing beneath a streetlight before vanishing into the shadows. Jamie had made fun of her for being so enchanted by it. 'It's a pest, Maya. It probably eats trash.'

But she'd loved the way it moved — purposeful, wild, unburdened by compromises. Not like them. Not like the careful negotiations of a seven-year relationship dismantling itself piece by piece.

The box on the counter contained his coffee mug, his copy of The Master and Margarita, a framed photograph from a trip to Prague. Small artifacts of a life they'd built together, now reduced to cardboard and packing tape.

Barnaby rubbed against her leg again, purring now. She reached down and scratched behind his ears, the way Jamie used to do.

'Yeah,' she whispered to the empty apartment. 'I know.'

Her iphone lit up again. Another notification from Sarah.

'I'm coming over with wine. Don't argue.'

Maya smiled, just a little. Some things, at least, remained reliable. Outside, beyond the window, the city hummed with all the lives being lived simultaneously — all the heartbreaks and small kindnesses and unexpected friendships. The fox was somewhere out there too, moving through the darkness, wild and unanchored and entirely itself.

She texted back: 'The good Pinot.'

Then she began unpacking the box.