The Unsent Message

The orange glow of sunset spilled across Mara's desk as she stared at her iPhone, thumb hovering over the send button. The message—three years old—still sat in her drafts folder: "I still think about you."

Her cat, a surly ginger named Barnaby, jumped onto the keyboard, walking across the keys with deliberate indifference. 49jjjjjjjjjlllll appeared on screen.

"You're helpful," she muttered, pushing him aside. Barnaby had been David's cat originally, a joint custody arrangement that had somehow outlasted their relationship.

Three years since David walked out. Three years of Sunday nights exactly like this one—half-empty wine glass, cold takeout, the same playlist of songs that made her feel simultaneously nostalgic and nauseous. The iPhone buzzed with a work notification, some meaningless deadline about quarterly projections that could wait until Monday.

Mara stood up, crossing to the window. The orange light was fading now, surrendering to the gray-blue of evening. She watched a couple walking their dog on the sidewalk below, holding hands, probably discussing something mundane and wonderful.

Her phone chimed again. Not work this time.

David.

"Barnaby won't eat. Can you talk?"

Mara's fingers trembled as she picked up the iPhone. The device felt suddenly heavy, absurdly small for containing something so enormous. They hadn't spoken in six months—not since the awkward encounter at Sarah's wedding, both of them pretending to be fine, succeeding too well.

The cat wound around her legs now, purring with an intensity that seemed almost mocking.

"I can't," she typed. Then deleted.

"He's fine," she typed. Then deleted.

"Why are you texting me after three years?" she typed. Then deleted.

The orange was gone from the sky now. Streetlamps flickered on below, creating pools of artificial amber on the pavement.

Mara set the phone face-down on the desk and walked to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine she'd been saving for a special occasion that never seemed to arrive. Some occasions, she was learning, were simply too special to ever actually happen.

Barnaby followed, weaving between her legs as if nothing had changed.

"You never liked him anyway," she whispered to the cat, pouring wine with hands that had finally stopped shaking. "You always knew."