What Remains in the Bowl

The hospice room smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers. Elena smoothed her hair — silver now, not the chestnut waves from twenty years ago — before knocking.

"Come in," a voice like dried leaves whispered.

Marcus sat propped up against pillows, wearing the same fedora he'd worn to their disastrous college graduation. The hat was ridiculous in a hospice bed, but Marcus had always been performative to the bitter end.

"You came," he said.

"You called."

"Friend of the devil, friend of mine." He coughed, a wet rattle that made her wince. "The goldfish needs feeding."

Elena looked at the small bowl on the nightstand. One orange fish swam in endless circles, its mouth opening and closing in silent supplication. She sprinkled flakes, watched it rise.

"I named him Bubbles," Marcus said. "Creative, I know."

"You never were."

"No. I was the one who left you at the altar, remember?"

"I seem to recall something along those lines."

"You wore a hat too," he said. "White lace. Looked like you should be serving cocktails."

She should have left then. Should have walked out and never returned to the man who'd humiliated her in front of two hundred people. But here she was, feeding his fish while he died.

"Why am I here, Marcus?"

"Because I asked. Because you're kind. Because maybe I wanted to see if there's anything left of us."

"There isn't."

"I know." His eyes drifted to the water glass on his tray, untouched. "I'm sorry, El. About everything."

"Twenty years too late."

"Better than never."

She watched the fish surface, break water, gulp. Something broke in her chest — not forgiveness, never that. But something like recognition. They were all swimming in circles, waiting for whatever came next.

"The fish," Marcus said softly. "Would you take him?"

"You want me to take your goldfish?"

"Someone needs to. Don't let him flush."

"Marcus, I haven't spoken to you in two decades."

"Please."

Elena looked at the fish, at the man who'd broken her heart, at the ceiling where water stains mapped continents of regret.

"Fine," she said. "But I'm naming him Chaos."

Marcus smiled, the first genuine expression she'd seen all afternoon. "Fitting."

She left with the bowl in her hands, water sloshing against her palms, wondering why she kept making the same mistakes over and over again, swimming in circles like the rest of them, waiting for someone to finally feed her.