What Remains of Us

The goldfish circled its bowl, orange scales catching the morning light that filtered through blinds I hadn't opened in weeks. Its memory was supposed to last three seconds. I envied it.

I moved through my apartment like a zombie, not dead but not quite alive either. Since Sarah left, everything had blurred into a sameness I couldn't seem to shake. Wake, work, sleep. Repeat. The numbness had become comfortable, like a worn blanket I couldn't bring myself to discard.

My iPhone buzzed on the counter. Her name lit up the screen.

"Can you come get the rest of your things?"

I stared at the message until the screen dimmed. The bull in our relationship had always been me—stubborn, charging forward without looking, convinced that being right was more important than being happy. Sarah had been patience itself, until she wasn't.

The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent demand for food. I'd forgotten it again.

"Yeah," I typed back. "I'll come by Saturday."

The phone immediately showed three dots, then stopped. Then started again. This dance we did now—careful words, measured responses, as if the wrong phrasing might shatter what was already broken.

"Okay. 2pm works."

I set down the phone and sprinkled flakes into the bowl. The goldfish darted upward, indifferent to my presence, indifferent to everything except food. There was something almost peaceful about that kind of simplicity.

At work, I sat through meetings where my boss droned about quarterly projections. I nodded at the right moments, took notes I wouldn't read. No one seemed to notice that part of me had gone missing. Maybe we're all zombies sometimes, moving through the motions until something shakes us awake again.

That night, I dreamed of Sarah. We were by the ocean, and she was laughing, hair wild in the salt wind. She kept saying something I couldn't quite hear, no matter how hard I tried. The dream felt so real that when I woke, I reached for her side of the bed before remembering.

The goldfish watched me from its shelf, swimming in its endless circles. Three seconds of memory at a time. No past, no future. Just the eternal now.

Maybe that wasn't such a curse after all.

I picked up my iPhone, scrolled through old photos until I found one from our wedding day. Her smile, the way she looked at me like I was everything. The bull who'd charged through life without learning how to be gentle.

"I'm sorry," I typed into the empty message field. Then deleted it. Some apologies needed to be said face to face, if she'd still let me.

The fish swam on, indifferent to human heartbreak. Saturday would come. Maybe I'd finally learn to listen. Maybe some things remain broken. But not yet. Not today.