The Weight of Empty Rooms

The spinach had been in the crisper drawer for two weeks. Emma could see it through the translucent plastic, wilting into something unrecognizable—much like the five years she'd spent with David.

She stood in the kitchen of their apartment, or what used to be their apartment, watching rain streak the windows like tears that refused to fall. The water collected on the sill, a tiny ecosystem of stagnation.

"You're doing it again," David said from the doorway. He held a cardboard box. "Disappearing into your head."

"I'm right here."

"Are you?" His iPhone buzzed on the counter—Sarah's name lighting up the screen. Emma felt the familiar squeeze in her chest, sharp and practiced. She'd stopped asking months ago.

Barnaby, their cat, wound around David's legs, purring loudly. The traitor.

"He's coming with me," David said.

Emma nodded. She'd already decided.

The refrigerator hummed, its orange interior light casting everything in a sickly glow. She thought about all the meals they'd planned to cook together, the dinners that became takeout, then silence, then sleeping in separate rooms.

"I found the messages," she said quietly.

David froze. The cat stopped mid-rub against his shin.

"Emma—"

"Don't. Just—don't."

She walked to the sink, ran the water, watched it swirl down the drain. The sound filled the terrible silence between them. She remembered the day they'd adopted Barnaby from that shelter in Queens, how David had cried when the cat chose him. She remembered the trip to California where they'd watched the sun sink into the Pacific, eating oranges they'd bought from a roadside stand, sticky and sweet on their fingers. Back when they still touched each other without flinching.

"I'll be gone by the time you get back from work tomorrow," David said.

She nodded again, still watching the water. She couldn't look at him. If she looked, she might cry, or beg, or say something she couldn't take back. Or worse—she might feel nothing at all.

"Emma?"

"Take the spinach," she said. "It's still good if you cook it tonight."

He didn't laugh. But she heard him set down the box, heard his footsteps retreat, the front door closing with its familiar click. She stood there a long time, listening to the rain, to the refrigerator, to the terrifying quiet of becoming just herself again.