The Things We Leave Behind

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, its silver connector staring up at me—the last physical evidence of Marc's existence in my apartment. Three years of HBO accounts and shared Netflix passwords, reduced to this stripped wire he'd forgotten when he walked out last Tuesday.

I stood in the kitchen, swallowing my vitamin D supplement with lukewarm coffee. The doctor said my levels were critically low—apparently grief and sunlight deficiency make a dangerous combination. I'd been taking them every morning since Marc left, as if a daily pill could somehow compensate for the warmth that had evaporated from my life.

The wilting spinach in my crisper drawer told me I hadn't eaten properly in days. We used to make salads together on Sunday nights, him washing the greens while I chopped vegetables, some mundane domestic ritual that felt like everything in the moment. Now the spinach sat there, turning yellow and slimy, reproaching me every time I opened the refrigerator.

"You should come," Elena had said when she called yesterday. "Padel with us on Saturday. It'll be good for you. Get you out of this apartment."

She didn't understand that padel had been our sport—Marc and I at the court near his office every Thursday evening, the sound of the ball against the glass walls, the way he'd laugh when I'd miss an easy shot. The sport was everywhere in this city, every converted warehouse and sports club advertising courts, as if the whole world was mocking my loss.

I threw the cable into the trash bag along with the spinach. Some things you can't salvage.

My phone buzzed—Elena again. "6 PM. Don't make me drag you there."

Maybe she was right. Maybe the point wasn't to avoid everything that reminded me of him, but to overwrite those memories with new ones. To let myself exist in spaces where he'd once been, and discover that I was still whole without him.

I took another vitamin, washed it down, and texted Elena back. "I'll be there."