The Things We Leave Behind

The apartment felt cavernous without his things. Elena stood in the bedroom, running her fingers through the loose ends of her hair—hair he used to braid when they couldn't sleep, when the insomnia of their shared life kept them both awake until dawn.

His cat, a surly tabby named Mugsy, watched from the dresser. The cat had been his emotional support animal during the divorce, his proof of life after catastrophe. Now Mugsy was hers, another custody arrangement neither of them had anticipated.

"You're stuck with me," Elena whispered, and the cat blinked slowly.

In the living room, the cable box blinked with the time—3:14 AM. She'd cancelled the service yesterday, but the light persisted, like the ghosts of all the movies they'd watched together, all the arguments about what to stream, all the comfortable silences.

She thought about the dog they'd talked about getting, the hypothetical golden retriever that existed only in their future tense. We'll get a dog when we renovate the kitchen. When we have more time. When we're ready.

The future tense was gone.

Elena walked to the window. Below, the apartment complex pool reflected the moonlight. She remembered swimming there last summer, how they'd raced each other until they were breathless and laughing, how the water had felt like baptism, like starting over.

She thought about his new place across town, the fresh paint, the new furniture, the clean slate he'd confessed to wanting. A clean slate without their history in every scratch on the floorboard, every stain on the rug.

The pool water was still. No one was swimming.

Elena went to the closet where she'd boxed his belongings. There wasn't much—some books, a few shirts, the photo albums he'd asked her to keep safe. She'd meant to ship them weeks ago.

Instead, she sat on the floor and opened one box. His old swimsuit was on top, faded from too many summers in the sun. She pressed it to her face and breathed in chlorine and memory.

Mugsy jumped into her lap, purring like a small engine. The cat's fur was warm against her skin.

"We're okay," she said aloud. "We're going to be okay."

Outside, the first light of morning touched the pool water. Somewhere across the city, he was probably waking up too. But this grief—this precise, sharp constellation of cat hair and cancelled cable and unworn swimsuits—was hers alone.

She stood up and carried the box to the door. She would ship it today. She would call the cable company. She would swim in the pool before work.

Elena walked to the bathroom and brushed her hair until it shone, watching her own face in the mirror. Someone she was just beginning to know again.