What We Feed What Remains

The goldfish — orange as a sunset we'd never seen together — had outlived our marriage by six months. Thomas had bought it during the week we got the diagnosis, naming it Lucky with the kind of desperate optimism that makes strangers wince. Now it was just mine.

"You're overfeeding him again," Elena said from the doorway, letting herself in like she still belonged here. Former wife, current housemate, permanent reminder of what we'd lost and who we'd failed to become.

"He looks thin," I said, dropping another pinch of flakes onto the water's surface. Lucky rose, mouth opening and closing in that silent, perpetual scream that aquarium fish always have. Like it knew something we didn't.

"There's spinach in the fridge," she said, not meeting my eyes. "From the CSA. It's going to wilt."

"I don't want spinach."

"It's good for you. We're supposed to be..." She stopped. "Healthy."

"Healthy." I laughed, and it came out harder than I intended. "Seven years of fertility treatments and organic vegetables worked out so well for us."

She flinched. Good. I wanted her to.

The rain started against the windows, water sliding down glass like tears.

"I'm seeing someone," she said.

The goldfish pressed its orange body against the glass, watching.

"He's got kids," she continued, like confessing to a murder. "Two. From a previous marriage."

"Okay."

"I didn't know how to tell you."

"It's fine, Elena."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you're still in the hoping."

I looked at the spinach wilting in the crisper drawer. Looked at the fish, Lucky, who had survived everything we'd done to ourselves and each other. Looked at Elena, who was trying to build a life somewhere else while still haunting this one.

"I'll cook the spinach," I said.

She nodded, relief washing over her face. She closed her door gently.

I watched the fish swim in endless circles. Orange and silent. Caught between hunger and fullness, wanting and having, the life we'd planned and the one we were actually living.

"Me too," I whispered to the empty kitchen. "I'm sorry too."

I tore the spinach leaves with my hands. Somewhere in the other room, Elena was probably texting him. Somewhere in the world, children were growing up in families that hadn't had to fight to exist.

The water in the fishbowl caught the kitchen light, casting ripples across the ceiling like the ghost of a future we'd never have.

Lucky swam to the surface, mouth opening, closing. Opening, closing. Like it almost remembered the words.