The Weight in Her Teeth

Julia hadn't felt like herself since David died eight months ago. She moved through her days like a zombie, automated and hollow, performing the rituals of living without experiencing them. Wake, work, eat, sleep. Repeat.

The conference room buzzed with nervous energy. Marketing's final presentation before the merger. Julia's division had been hemorrhaging money since January—a bear market of their own making, and now everyone would pay the price.

"Julia, you're up next," Marcus said, avoiding her eyes. He'd been avoiding everyone's eyes since the layoffs were announced.

She smoothed her blouse, stood, and caught her reflection in the glass wall. A piece of spinach wedged between her front teeth, bright and accusing, like a secret she'd forgotten to keep.

David would have laughed. He'd always called her "his little bear" because she hibernated through stress, curling inward until the danger passed. But David wasn't here to laugh anymore. David wasn't anywhere.

"Ms. Chen?" The CEO tapped his pen.

The spinach was from lunch—a salad she hadn't wanted, eating only because David would have wanted her to take care of herself. She'd stood in their kitchen yesterday, staring at the bag of spinach in the crisper drawer, dated from before the funeral. Three months past its prime. Just like her.

"Ms. Chen?"

She opened her mouth and something broke loose. Not the spinach. Something else.

"I can't do this anymore," she said, the room falling silent. "Not the presentation. Not this. Any of it."

She walked out, spinach and all, and didn't look back at the stunned faces, the scattered papers, the careers crumbling behind her. Outside, the city hummed with indifferent life. Julia breathed in, really breathed, for the first time in months. She'd figure out the rest tomorrow. For now, she just wanted to feel something real.