What We Bear

The goldfish died three days after Mark left. That was the first thing I noticed when I finally returned to the apartment—its orange body floating near the surface of the bowl, translucent fins fanned like something caught in suspension. I'd won it at a carnival two years ago, the night we met. Mark had laughed so hard he almost spilled his beer, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, his dog—a scruffy terrier mix named Buster—tangled in the leash around his legs.

We'd been that couple. The ones who talked about getting a dog of our own, who spent Sunday afternoons at the baseball field near his apartment, sharing hot dogs and discussing futures we'd never quite commit to. He taught me to pitch. I taught him to apologize. It was the kind of romance that felt complete even in its brokenness.

Now, Buster was my dog. The adoption paperwork had both our names, but Mark had walked away from both of us when he moved out. Last week, the vet told me Buster had a tumor. There's nothing to do but make him comfortable, she said. The phrase struck me like a baseball to the chest—how much of my life had become about making things comfortable, bearing the weight of endings I couldn't prevent.

I flushed the goldfish and sat on the floor with Buster. His gray muzzle rested on my knee, breath warm against my skin. Outside, the neighborhood kids played baseball in the street, their shouts carrying through the open window. Mark had loved that sound—the crack of the bat, the chaos of running bases. He said it reminded him of being young enough to believe every game could be won.

Maybe that was our problem. I never believed in winning. I only believed in bearing whatever came—loss, disappointment, the slow erosion of hope. The goldfish had lasted longer than we did. Buster would outlive us both, in the way animals do, carrying forward a love that couldn't speak its name.

The dog whined, sensing something. I stroked his ears and tried to remember Mark's hands, how they'd felt in mine. But all I could summon was the weight of everything I'd learned to bear—the small deaths, the quiet endings, the way love survives even when it shouldn't.