What We Leave Behind

Elena found him at his desk exactly where she'd expected—still working, still avoiding. The papaya sat on the corner of his blotter, already sliced into neat orange wedges, its seeds scattered like dark secrets on a paper towel. She'd brought it from the market that morning, a peace offering in the form of fruit he'd once loved.

"We need to talk about Alaska," she said, leaning against the doorframe. Their calendars were open for July, finally, after three years of postponements. The trip had been his mother's dying wish—see the bears one last time before the darkness took her completely.

Marcus didn't look up from his monitor. "Work's crazy. You know that."

"Work has been crazy for five years, Marcus. Your mother's memory isn't getting any sharper, and neither are we." Elena crossed the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and set her keys on his desk with deliberate slowness. "I'm not asking for forever anymore. I'm asking for July."

His house cat, Biscuit, wound around her ankles, purring desperately. The animal had been her sixth anniversary present to him, back when they still marked such things. Now the cat was the only living thing in this house that seemed to notice when she entered a room.

"You think a trip fixes this?" Marcus finally met her eyes, and she saw it again—that same exhaustion she'd been seeing for months, maybe years. "That watching some damn bear catch salmon makes up for... everything?"

"No," Elena said softly. "But bearing witness to something real together might. And if it doesn't, then at least we'll know."

She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Outside, summer had arrived without their permission. The papaya would brown soon if no one ate it. Some things couldn't be postponed indefinitely.

Marcus picked up a wedge of fruit, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite. Juice dripped onto his thumb. "Book the tickets," he said, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Elena felt something other than waiting.