What We Carry

The hotel pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly what David needed. He sat on the edge with his legs in the water, the blue light from his iPhone illuminating his face—the message from Sarah's lawyer still glowing on the screen. The settlement terms were fair. Everything was fair. That was the problem.

He'd been running every morning since she left, six miles through neighborhoods he didn't know, hoping physical exhaustion would drown out the silence in their condo. But tonight his legs were too tired to run, so he'd ended up here.

A memory surfaced, unbidden: the carnival goldfish they'd won their first year together, fed nothing but love and over-enthusiasm, dead within a week. They'd cried over that fish, wrapped it in a tissue, buried it in a houseplant. They were so good at mourning small things then. Now they couldn't even acknowledge the death of twelve years without lawyers and mediation.

The water rippled. David watched his reflection distort—thirty-eight, divorced, sleeping in a room with a numbered key. His father had always told him he'd have to learn to bear the weight of his choices. The old man had been right about most things, especially the painful ones.

He stood up, water dripping from his calves, and typed his response to the lawyer: Agree to everything. Then he powered off the phone and set it on the table, a small black rectangle on white linen.

In the morning, he would pack. He would sign the papers. He would move forward, step by step, into whatever came next. But tonight, he would sit by the pool and remember the weight of things—the fish, the promises, the years—and let himself miss them.