What We Carry

Maya found him in the kitchen at 3 AM, staring at a papaya like it held the meaning of life. The fruit sat on the counter, its orange flesh glowing in the refrigerator light, while Leo stood motionless—his eyes hollow, his skin pale, a man who'd been moving through the days since the funeral like a zombie.

"You okay?" she asked, though she knew the answer.

He didn't respond. Just kept looking at that papaya, the one she'd bought because it was his mother's favorite. The same papaya that had sat rotting in their fruit bowl three weeks ago while they planned a memorial.

Barnaby, their elderly golden retriever, shuffled into the kitchen, his nails clicking against the tile. He pressed his warm side against Maya's leg, sensing it all. The dog had been eating less since the funeral too.

"I can't bear it," Leo finally said, his voice cracking. "I can't bear that she's gone."

Maya wrapped her arms around him from behind, feeling the sharp ridges of his spine. "I know."

"I keep expecting her to walk through the door. Even now. Even with the papaya sitting there reminding me she's not coming back."

She rested her chin on his shoulder. "That's how grief works. It doesn't make sense."

He turned to her then, and for the first time in weeks, something flickered behind his eyes—pain, yes, but also recognition. "I'm sorry I've been... absent."

"You've been grieving."

"I've been a zombie. I know you're hurting too."

Maya thought about the papaya, how it had become this symbol of everything they'd lost. How grief had turned them both into versions of themselves they barely recognized—Leo distant and hollow, herself angry and brittle.

"We'll figure it out," she said. "Together."

Barnaby whined softly, and they both reached down to pet him, their hands brushing. For a moment, the three of them stood there in the kitchen's harsh light, holding onto each other like survivors of a shipwreck, bearing the weight of everything they'd lost and everything they still had left to lose.