What Remains in the Screens
The cat hadn't moved from his spot on the windowsill for three days. Marcus watched him through the bleary morning light, the same light that used to catch Sara's jewelry on the nightstand, scattering rainbows across the ceiling they'd painted together in that first optimistic rush of homeownership.
Now the ceiling just looked yellow.
His iPhone buzzed on the kitchen counter — the third notification in as many minutes. Work emails. Someone in logistics panicking about a shipment. He ignored it, just as he'd ignored the previous twenty-seven messages from his mother asking if he'd "heard from Sara yet."
As if he could miss her. As if her absence wasn't the first thing he noticed every morning, a cavity in the bed where her breathing used to be.
The refrigerator hummed its indifferent electric song. Marcus opened it and stared at the container of spinach Sara had bought two days before she left. It was wilting now, blackening at the edges, a slow rot that nobody was eating. She'd planned to make that salad — the one with the warm bacon dressing and the soft-boiled eggs they both pretended to like because their friends had posted about it on Instagram.
"Everything's curated," she'd said the last time they fought. "Even us."
He'd thought she meant their anniversary dinner photos. Now he wondered if she'd meant something else entirely.
The cat finally stirred, stretching with that deliberate luxury only animals possess, and hopped down to weave between Marcus's legs. The animal purred, loud and demanding, hungry in a way Marcus couldn't remember being anymore. He reached down to scratch behind its ears, feeling the vibration against his fingertips — something alive, something present.
"Yeah," Marcus said to the empty kitchen. "I know."
He left the spinach in the refrigerator. He left his phone on the counter, its screen lighting up with messages he wouldn't answer. He stood in his kitchen and petted the cat, and for the first time in weeks, he let himself feel exactly how hungry he was.