What Remains on the Screen

The spinach sat limp and overcooked on Elena's plate, much like the conversation she and Marcus had been trying to have for three months. Their anniversary dinner at that overpriced bistro downtown—his choice, naturally. He'd spent the evening glancing at his iphone, the blue light illuminating his distraction more effectively than the candle between them ever could.

'Marcus,' she said, her voice barely carrying over the ambient jazz. 'Put it away.'

He didn't look up. 'It's work, El. You know how things are.'

She did know. She also knew that work emails didn't require smiling at whatever had just flashed across his screen.

When they returned to their apartment, Barnaby—their cat of seven years—didn't come to greet them. Elena found him under the bed, his breathing shallow, his usual vibrant purr reduced to a raspy rattle. The vet had warned them about his heart condition months ago. Marcus had promised to schedule the follow-up.

'You didn't make the appointment,' Elena said, not accusing, just stating the fact that hung between them like something unspeakable.

Marcus knelt beside the bed, reaching for Barnaby, who flinched. 'I've been busy. You know that.'

'I do,' she said. 'I also know you've had time for three happy hours with your team, weekly basketball games, whatever new show you're bingeing without me.'

He stood up, his face flushing. 'So this is about us now? Can't we just deal with the cat?'

'There is no 'just the cat,'' she said. 'There's everything we've been avoiding.'

She walked to the window, watching the rain streak against the glass. She felt it again—that sensation she'd been having for months, like she was swimming underwater, everything muffled and distant, including her own feelings. The weight of the water pressed against her chest, made it hard to breathe. She'd thought it was depression. Now she recognized it as the slow erosion of herself, the gradual disappearance of the woman who once made decisions without checking if they aligned with Marcus's preferences.

Her iphone chimed from her purse—a reminder for her therapy appointment tomorrow. She'd started going six weeks ago. Marcus didn't know.

Barnaby let out a sharp cry, his small body convulsing.

Marcus's iphone buzzed on the counter. He didn't even look at it this time. 'El, I—'

'Don't,' she said, turning from the window. 'Just don't.' She knelt beside Barnaby, stroking his soft gray fur, feeling his racing heart beneath her palm. 'I'm going to take him to the emergency vet. Alone.'

'I'll come,' Marcus started.

'No,' she said, standing up with Barnaby in her arms. 'You stay. Check your emails. Respond to whatever's more important than this, than us.'

She grabbed her keys, her purse, leaving her phone on the counter beside his. Let him sit with his device, his distractions, his carefully constructed avoidance. She was done swimming in someone else's current. It was time, finally, to find her own shore.