What We Keep in Jars

The apartment felt cavernous without him. Sarah stood in the kitchen, staring at the goldfish bowl on the counter. Marvin had won it at a carnival three years ago, the night he proposed. The fish had outlasted the marriage.

"You need to feed it," her friend Elena said, leaning against the doorframe. She'd been coming by more often since the separation. "Or flush it. Those things can live a long time in neglect, but that's not really living, is it?"

Sarah sprinkled flakes into the bowl. The goldfish rose sluggishly, its orange scales dull in the morning light. "I'm not killing it, Elena. It's innocent."

"So were you." Elena stepped forward, her voice softening. "He cheated, Sarah. Twice that you know of. You're bearing the weight of his failures like they're yours to carry."

The apartment was full of things she couldn't sort through: his vinyl collection, the mismatched mugs from their travels, the cat Marvin had brought home as a joke—that wedding anniversary surprise that wasn't funny. Barnaby now wound around Sarah's ankles, purring, completely unaware that his person was gone. "At least one of us doesn't care," she told the cat, scooping him up.

"Your boss called," Elena changed the subject. "Said you've been missing meetings. Said you need to take the bull by the horns with the Richardson account or they'll find someone who will."

Sarah set the cat down gently. "I hate that expression. It makes everything sound so simple. Like it's just courage that's needed, not—" She waved at the apartment, at the life half-packed in boxes. "Not this."

"What if you came back to yoga with me? Just once. My instructor says grief lives in the body. We have to move it through or it settles."

Sarah looked at Elena—really looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes, the careful way she held herself, like Sarah was something fragile that might break. "You're carrying me, aren't you?"

"That's what friends do."

"That's what people do who haven't left yet." Sarah's voice caught. "God, I'm sorry. That was cruel."

Elena didn't flinch. "True, though. You keep waiting for everyone to abandon you. But some of us are stubborn. We're going to sit with you in the dark until you're ready to turn on the lights."

The goldfish broke the surface, gulping air. Sarah watched it sink back down, trailing bubbles like silent words. "Okay," she said finally. "Yoga. And then I'll call work. And maybe—I'll look at those boxes."

Elena nodded, satisfied. "Start anywhere. Just start."

Later, as Sarah sprinkled more flakes into the bowl, she noticed something new: the fish seemed more vibrant, its scales catching light she hadn't noticed before. Maybe it had always been this way, and she'd just stopped looking. Or maybe some things, given time and care, could learn to swim again.