The Weight of Empty Spaces

June stood in her kitchen, naked except for a faded t-shirt she'd stolen from David three years ago. Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the papaya on her countertop—fruit she'd bought because he loved it, though she'd never acquired the taste. She sliced it anyway, the knife slipping through the flesh like memory through grief.

She'd spent three months running from this moment. Running from friends who wanted to fix her with wine and platitudes. Running from her mother's concerned phone calls. Running from the truth that David hadn't left her; he'd simply stopped choosing her, day after day, until the choosing became impossible.

The spinach wilted in the pan, water evaporating too quickly. She'd forgotten to set the timer again. Everything evaporated lately—time, motivation, the belief that she'd ever feel whole again. She dumped the greens into the compost, watching steam rise like prayers she'd stopped saying.

Another strike of lightning, closer now. The papaya sat uneaten on her plate. She'd made this meal twelve dozen times when they were together, her movements choreographed, efficient. Now she was relearning how to inhabit space that had once been choreographed for two.

June turned on the faucet, letting water run over her hands—too hot, then too cold. She remembered David's voice in the bathroom after lovemaking, murmuring about how they'd grow old together, how they'd buy a house with a garden, how they'd plant papaya trees even though they lived in Ohio.

The lies we tell ourselves in the dark.

She sat at the table, finally tasting the papaya. Sweet, musky, slightly fermented. It was delicious. She'd been lying to herself about hating it for three years.

June laughed, the sound raw and unfamiliar in the quiet kitchen. Outside, the storm broke. Rain slashed against the windows like everything she couldn't say.

She took another bite, and another. Tomorrow she'd buy more. Tomorrow she'd stop running. Tomorrow she'd learn to choose herself, day after day, until the choosing became inevitable.

But tonight, she finished the papaya in the dark, feeling almost whole.