What Remains in the Empty Apartment

The goldfish swims in endless circles, its orange scales catching the afternoon light that filters through the blinds I haven't adjusted since she left. Three weeks, and the fish is the only living thing that hasn't abandoned me.

I'm supposed to be at work. Instead, I'm sitting on the floor of what used to be our living room, surrounded by half-packed boxes. My phone buzzes again—another notification I won't answer. The iPhone's screen stays dark, face-down beside me like an accusation.

Her hat still hangs on the hook by the door. That ridiculous wide-brimmed thing she wore to protect her pale skin from the sun, the one I made fun of but secretly loved because it made her look like a 1940s film star. I should throw it away. I should move everything. But my hands shake when I reach for it, so I leave it there, waiting for a head that will never wear it again.

The cat—our cat, technically mine now—materializes from the bedroom, weaving between my legs with imperious demand. He doesn't care about heartbreak or lease agreements or the way coffee tastes different somehow. He only cares that his food bowl is empty and that I'm finally sitting still enough to serve as furniture.

"You miss her too, huh?" I ask, but he just yawns, exposing needle teeth and pink gums.

I remember the night she bought the goldfish. We'd been fighting about something trivial—dishes, maybe, or whose turn it was to walk the cat. She'd disappeared into the bathroom and emerged hours later, eyes red-rimmed, holding this plastic bag with a single fish swimming inside. "Look," she'd said, "it's just us. He doesn't have anyone else either."

We'd laughed. We'd named him Gerald.

The fish stops swimming and floats near the glass's surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. I press my finger to the cool wall between us and watch him follow it, tiny and desperate and alive.

My phone buzzes again. This time I turn it over.

Unknown number. The area code matches her mother's town.

For a moment I consider letting it ring, consider becoming someone who doesn't answer, who packs up his life and moves to a city where no one knows about the hat by the door or the fish in the corner or the woman who left them behind.

Instead, I swipe right, and my voice sounds like someone else's when I say hello.