What Remains of Us

She looked like a zombie sitting there — not the movie kind with hollowed eyes and outstretched arms, but the modern variety: hollowed out by years of quiet compromise, moving through rooms she no longer saw, performing the motions of a life she'd stopped feeling years ago. Her iPhone glowed in the dim kitchen, the only illumination as she scrolled through someone else's vacation photos.

"Sarah," he said, and she didn't look up. Not at first. The blue light reflected in her eyes like tiny captured stars.

He placed the orange on the counter between them. It seemed absurdly bright against the gray granite, against the gray evening, against the gray marriage they'd both stopped acknowledging was dead. The orange scent cut through everything stale — the takeout containers, the unwashed sheets, the unsaid words that had accumulated like dust.

"I remembered you used to love these," he said.

She finally looked up. Her fingers paused on the glass screen. The image of a beach in Bali dimmed as the phone timed out, and in the darkness, he saw her face clearly for the first time in months.

"That was ten years ago, David."

"I know."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up the orange and began to peel it, the citrus mist rising between them like an offering. The skin tore away in long strips, revealing the fruit underneath — bright, segmented, vulnerable. It was the most alive thing in the room.

"Because I think we've been walking around with our skin on for too long," he said finally. "Pretending there's something still inside."

She watched his hands. The orange segments separated easily. He held one out to her.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A notification. A work email. Something that needed her attention immediately, urgently, forever.

She reached for the orange instead. The juice was sharp against her fingers, sticky and real. When she bit into it, the flavor exploded — bright, acidic, overwhelming. It made her want to cry. It made her remember what it felt like to want something.

"It's good," she said, juice running down her chin.

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

They stood there in the dark kitchen, sharing an orange like it was the most revolutionary thing in the world. Outside, the neighborhood slept. Their phones stayed dark. For the first time in years, neither of them felt dead.