The Third Wheel

Sarah sat across from Michael at their favorite restaurant, watching the candlelight dance on the surface of her water glass. She'd spent hours preparing that morning—cooking, dressing, hoping—yet now she felt like she was dining alone.

"How was your day?" she asked, not really wanting to know.

Michael didn't look up. His thumbs moved across his iPhone screen with practiced efficiency, the blue light reflecting in his eyes, drowning out the warmth of the candle between them. "Mmm. Crazy. You know how it is."

He didn't. She'd stopped telling him months ago.

The waiter arrived with their salads. Sarah's spinach lay wilted and dark, like something that had given up trying to be fresh. She poked at it with her fork, remembering how Michael used to call it "their vegetable" when they'd first started dating—how they'd laugh together in the grocery store, planning meals, planning a future.

Now his phone buzzed again. A smile flickered across his face—not for her, never for her anymore.

"I should take this," he said, already standing up.

Sarah watched him walk away, phone pressed to his ear, animated in a way he hadn't been with her in years. She looked down at her salad, at the spinach leaves swimming in the remains of her water glass where she'd accidentally knocked it over. The liquid turned the greens into something murky and unrecognizable.

She realized then that she'd become like that spinach—wilted, neglected, slowly drowning while pretending everything was fine. The iPhone wasn't just a device anymore; it was the third person in their marriage, the one he turned to, the one he confided in, the one that held his attention when she couldn't.

When Michael returned, his screen lit up with another notification. He didn't even notice that Sarah had already left the restaurant, leaving behind her coat, her half-eaten salad, and the wedding ring she'd placed on the table beside his water glass.