What Remains on the Counter

The spinach sat wilting in the colander, exactly where Maya had left it three days ago when David's text came through. Just five words on her iPhone screen: *I can't do this anymore.*

She stood in the kitchen of their shared apartment, surrounded by the half-life of a relationship. The spinach wasn't just vegetables anymore—it was the dinner she'd planned to make, the conversation they'd never have, the future that had dissolved into something unrecognizable.

Her phone buzzed again. Another notification. Another vitamin supplement ad, as if the algorithm knew she was running on empty.

Maya picked up a bottle of vitamin D from the counter—the ones David bought because she complained about winter fatigue. *Take care of yourself,* he'd said, pressing a kiss to her forehead that morning. That morning, ten days ago, when the world still made sense.

Now she couldn't remember if she'd taken them today. Couldn't remember much of anything except the way his voice had cracked over the phone call that followed the text. The way he said *it's not you, it's me* like it was a script he'd rehearsed, except the line about the PhD program across the country sounded terrifyingly real.

She dumped the spinach into the trash. It landed with a wet thud that echoed in the sudden quiet.

Her iPhone lit up with a photo from two years ago: David grinning with spinach in his teeth at their friends' wedding. Maya had laughed so hard she cried. She'd wiped the green leaf away with her thumb, thinking *this is it, this is forever.*

Forever had turned out to be twenty-three months.

The vitamin bottle felt heavy in her hand. She dry-swallowed two pills, not caring if they'd help or not. Some habits persist even when everything else falls apart.

Outside, the February sky pressed against the windows. Spring would come eventually. The spinach would grow again in gardens. She'd take her vitamins. She'd learn to live in an apartment that didn't smell like his shampoo.

Maya placed her phone face-down on the counter. Some notifications didn't need answers. Some endings were just beginnings that hadn't revealed themselves yet.