What Remains Tethered

The coaxial cable frayed at the edges, its copper core exposed like a nerve ending. Elena had been staring at it for twenty minutes, sandwiched between the wall and the television stand, waiting for the will to either fix it or finally accept that the connection was gone.

Three weeks since David left. Three weeks of sporadic internet, of eating while standing at the counter, of pretending she didn't notice how quiet the apartment had become.

Her phone buzzed. Her mother, again.

"Have you been eating?"

"Yes, Mom."

"You sound thin."

"I made spinach." It wasn't entirely a lie. There was a bag of wilting spinach in the refrigerator, purchased during that brief period of resolve—the one where she'd decided grief would not claim her appetite along with everything else. That was ten days ago. The spinach was now a slimy memory of good intentions.

A scratching sound came from the hallway. Elena froze.

Then it came again—familiar, insistent. She knew that rhythm.

She opened the door to find Buster, the golden retriever from 4B, sitting on her doormat. His tail thumped once, twice. Sarah must have left the building again—third time this month. Another failed relationship, another extended business trip, whatever story she was telling herself these days.

Buster pushed past her, like he belonged here, like this was where he'd always been meant to be. He flopped onto the rug with a heavy sigh, exactly where David used to work.

"You too, huh?" Elena whispered. "Everyone leaves."

But Buster didn't leave. He watched her with ancient, knowing eyes, and something in her chest cracked open. She slid down to sit beside him, buried her face in his fur, and finally—finally—let herself cry for the life that had unraveled. The cable could wait. The spinach could rot. What remained tethered, she realized, was not the connections she'd lost, but the ones that had never needed fixing at all.