What We Carry Forward

The cat scratched at the bedroom door again, a rhythmic reminder of the life we were dismantling. I ignored it, focusing instead on the packing tape gun in my hands — the same one we'd bought three years ago when we moved into this apartment with such stupid optimism.

"You're taking the blender?" David asked from the kitchen. He sounded surprised, almost offended.

"I paid for it."

"We bought it together."

"We're not a we anymore, David."

The silence stretched. I could hear him cooking — the familiar sounds of onion hitting oil, garlic following. Spinach wilting in the pan. Our favorite dinner, the one we made on our first anniversary, on nights we celebrated good news, on terrible nights when one of us got laid off during the pandemic. It was both cruel and kind that he'd chosen tonight of all nights to make it.

I found him standing at the stove when I finally emerged with another box. The kitchen smelled like home. My throat tightened.

"There's enough for two," he said, not turning around. His palm rested against the counter, fingers splayed. I knew that hand better than my own. I knew the small scar on his knuckle from when he punched a wall in college, the callus on his middle finger from writing, the way his thumb twitched when he was holding something back.

"I'm not hungry."

"Clara."

"What do you want from me?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "To sit down and share one last meal like everything is fine? To pretend you didn't sleep with your coworker?"

He turned then, and his face — God, his face. That familiar face, the one I'd woken up to for nearly a thousand mornings. "I fucked up. I know I did. But we had eight years, Clara. Doesn't that count for something?"

I stared at him. Outside, rain began to fall, a sudden downpour that blurred the city lights through the kitchen window. I remembered our vacation in Bali two years ago — swimming at night in the hotel pool, drunk on cheap champagne and the terrifying thrill of being so deeply in love. How we'd floated on our backs, holding hands across the surface, watching palm fronds sway against the stars while he whispered about forever.

Forever had turned out to be fifteen months.

"It counts," I said finally. "That's why I can't stay."

The cat wound around my ankles, purring loudly, unaware that her world was about to split in two. I picked her up, burying my face in soft fur that smelled like yesterday, like safety, like everything I was leaving behind.

"Take her," David said quietly. "She always loved you more anyway."

I nodded because speaking felt impossible. Because he was right. Because I'd already taken the blender and the good towels and the cat and my heart, and what was left between us now was just the ghost of something that had once been whole.