The Ungrieving

She placed the B-complex **vitamin** supplement on his nightstand, next to the glass of water that would sit untouched until morning. Another ritual. Another small performance of care that had lost its audience.

Three months since the stroke, and David was still there—not gone, but not entirely present either. He sat in his armchair for hours, eyes fixed on nothing, mouth slightly slack. The doctors called it aphasia and executive dysfunction. She called it living with a **zombie**.

Not the movie kind. There was no hunger for brains, no grotesque lurching. Just the slow erosion of the man she'd married, leaving behind this hollow thing that wore his face and needed help buttoning his shirt.

"You're different," her sister had said over coffee yesterday. "You're so... functional. Shouldn't you be seeing a grief counselor or something?"

She'd shrugged. "He's not dead."

"But he's not David anymore either."

That was the worst part—the not-grieving. The way her heart refused to accept permission to mourn, because how could she mourn someone who was still breathing? So she went through motions. She cooked meals he barely touched. She scheduled appointments. She arranged vitamin supplements on nightstands.

Barnaby—David's **cat**, or what was technically still David's cat—jumped onto the bed and settled at his feet. The animal purred loudly, kneading the blanket with neurotic insistence. Barnaby didn't seem to notice that David was different. He just wanted his human.

"You're lucky," she whispered to the cat. "You don't have to figure out what this means. You just love what's here."

David's eyes shifted slightly. His hand moved, almost imperceptibly, toward the cat.

Her breath caught.

His fingers brushed Barnaby's fur. The cat leaned into the touch.

Not a zombie, she thought. Not gone. Just... somewhere else. And wasn't everyone, really? Weren't they all just不同程度的present?

She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand over his. He didn't pull away. He didn't lean into it either. But he didn't shake it off.

That was something. That had to be enough.