What Remains in the Bowl

The vitamin bottle sat on the counter where Marcus had left it three weeks ago. Super B-Complex with extra D for mood support, the label promised. Sarah swallowed one dry each morning, a ritual of forced optimism she couldn't quite abandon.

"You're feeding that fish too much," Marcus had told her once, watching her tap flakes into the bowl. "He's going to burst."

"He's lonely," she'd replied. "Goldfish need friends."

Now the goldfish — stubborn, orange, inexplicably named Aristotle — swam his patient circuits in their Brooklyn apartment, his silence somehow more companionable than anything else she'd found since Marcus moved his things out in cardboard boxes on a Tuesday.

Luna, their cat, had taken to sleeping on Marcus's pillow. A territorial victory, Sarah supposed, or maybe just warmth. The cat would stare at her with those unjudging yellow eyes while she ate cereal over the sink, and somehow that felt like the most honest relationship she had left.

The vitamin bottle was nearly empty now. She'd have to buy more, or she'd have to stop pretending they were keeping her together. Either option felt like a decision she wasn't ready to make.

Aristotle rose to the surface, mouth opening in silent expectation.

"Yeah," she whispered to the fish. "I know."

She tapped the flakes — just a few this time — and watched him eat, suspended there in the water, so simple and complete in his needs. Luna purred against her leg, solid and alive and present.

Sarah took the last vitamin from the bottle. Some choices you make. Some choices make themselves.