Water Damage

Maya lay in bed at 2 AM, the blue glow of her iPhone illuminating the tear tracks on her cheeks. Three weeks since Daniel left, and she still checked his last message every morning—just to make sure it was still there, still real, still the final word.

The charging cable draped across her pillow like a dead snake, its white plastic frayed at the connection point where she'd twisted it through countless nights of obsessive scrolling, refreshing emails that would never come.

She sat up, throat parched, and went to the kitchen. The fluorescent overhead light made everything look clinical, hopeless. On the counter sat the bottle of vitamin D supplements the doctor had prescribed after Daniel moved out. "You're not getting enough sunlight," she'd said, as if Maya could just step outside and find the sun when her whole world had gone dark.

She dry-swallowed two pills. They stuck in her throat like guilt.

The fruit bowl held a single orange, its skin dimpled and softening past its prime. She peeled it anyway, desperate for something sharp and real in her mouth. The citrus spray stung her eyes—whether from the acid or the memory of Daniel peeling oranges for her in their first apartment, making stupid jokes about Vitamin C being the only vitamin they needed.

She turned on the tap to wash her sticky hands. The water ran cold over her fingers, and suddenly she was sobbing, great heaving gasps that bent her over the sink. She'd forgotten to call the plumber about the slow drain again. Just like she'd forgotten to call her mother back. Just like she'd forgotten how to be a person who functioned.

The iPhone buzzed on the counter. Her heart lurched—a text?

Low battery warning. 10% remaining.

She laughed then, a broken sound in the empty kitchen. Of course. Even her phone was leaving her. The cable was fraying, the vitamins were a lie, the orange was bitter, and now her lifeline to the world was dying.

But she didn't plug it in. She stood there, hands dripping water, watching the percentage drop. 9%. 8%. 7%.

For the first time in three weeks, she didn't check Daniel's message. She just let the battery drain, let the screen dim, let the darkness come.

Tomorrow, she'd buy a new cable. Tomorrow, she'd call the plumber. Tomorrow, she'd step outside and find the sun.

Tonight, she finally turned off the phone.