Things We Leave Behind

The refrigerator held three things: a jar of pickles, expired milk, and a bag of spinach that had turned to slime. The same spinach Daniel had bought three weeks ago, back when he still lived here, back when he still made those terrible green smoothies he swore would extend our lives.

I stood in the doorway, baseball cap pulled low over eyes that hadn't slept properly since he left. The cap was his—a fitted Mets cap I'd stolen from his closet, the brim still holding the faint scent of his shampoo. My hair was unwashed, matted from three days of failing to function like a human being.

Outside, Buster, the neighbor's golden retriever, barked at something invisible. That dog had been witness to too much—the screaming match on the porch, the night I sat on the steps crying into my hands, the morning Daniel carried boxes to his car without looking back. Now Buster's running figure became a blur through the kitchen window, chasing nothing, living entirely in the present moment.

I envied that dog.

My therapist suggested I make changes. Rearrange the furniture. Buy new sheets. Stop wearing his clothes. But I stood frozen, unable to move forward or back. The spinach sat there like an accusation—a rotting testament to all the ways we'd tried to be better versions of ourselves together. The green smoothies, the weekend runs, the baseball games we pretended to enjoy because his father loved them.

The running had been his idea too. We were training for a 10K, though I'd always hated running. But I loved the way he looked beside me, sweat-drenched and smiling, his hair plastered to his forehead, saying this was it, this was how we'd grow old together.

Now I ran alone, and somehow it felt like running in place.

The spinach had to go. I reached for the bag, my hand trembling slightly, and dumped it into the trash. A small thing. But the air already felt lighter. Buster barked again, joyful and insistent, and somewhere beyond him, the world kept turning. I took off the baseball cap, ran a hand through my tangled hair, and reached for the phone.

It was time to schedule that run.