What Drowns in Silence

The goldfish floated at the top of the bowl when Marcus got home, its orange scales catching the last light of the day. He'd bought it on their first anniversary—seven years ago—because Sarah loved how they swam in endless circles, content in their small worlds. Now it was dead, and so was everything else.

He turned on the faucet to fill the pot with water, watching the stream distort his reflection. In the bedroom, Sarah was packing. He could hear the hangers sliding along the rod, the zipper of her suitcase, the small sounds of a life being dismantled.

"Dinner's almost ready," he called out, his voice flat.

The spinach wilted in the pan, turning from vibrant green to something darker, sadder. He'd made this dish a hundred times—her favorite. Garlic, olive oil, a pinch of red pepper. Sarah called it their comfort food, the meal they'd shared the night he got the promotion, the night her mother died, the night they decided to try for a baby.

She appeared in the doorway, holding a box of books. "Marcus, we don't have to do this."

"You're the one leaving." He stirred the spinach harder.

"I'm leaving because you're not here. Even when you're here."

The water in the pot began to boil, bubbles rising and bursting like all the things they'd never said. He thought about how goldfish were supposed to have three-second memories. Maybe that would be easier—to forget everything before you could even feel the loss.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here."

"Your body is." She set down the box. "Everything else is somewhere else."

He turned off the stove. The spinach was overcooked now, limp and beaten down. "So that's it? Seven years, and you just... pack up and leave?"

"I've been leaving for a long time, Marcus. You just never noticed."

She picked up the box and walked to the door. "I'll send for the rest next week."

When the door clicked shut, Marcus stood there listening to the apartment settle into silence. He went to the goldfish bowl and poured the water and the fish into the toilet. It was better this way—no endless circles, no small glass prison. Just flush, and it was gone.

He sat down at the table alone, the spinach growing cold on his plate, and realized he didn't remember the last time he'd actually tasted anything at all.