What We Leave Behind

The key still worked after three months. Sarah stood in the doorway of the apartment she'd shared with Daniel, the air thick with the scent of her former life. Their **cat**, Barnaby, wound around her legs, purring obliviously. He'd stayed with Daniel in the breakup—a practical decision, since Daniel's building allowed pets and Sarah's new sublet didn't.

She was here for the final box of books, but she kept getting distracted by the evidence of their shared existence. Her coffee mug on the counter. The way the light hit the plants she'd nurtured. The framed photograph of them in Mexico that Daniel still hadn't taken down.

The sound of scratching at the door broke her trance. A neighbor's **dog**—a golden retriever mix she'd walked countless times with its owner, Maria. Maria had texted her last week: "Still hoping you'll join us for coffee."

Sarah had been avoiding coffee with Maria, just as she'd been avoiding this apartment. It was easier to pretend her old life had simply ceased to exist, like a subscription she'd canceled.

Daniel's key in the lock. She hadn't expected him home.

"Sarah." His hair was longer than she'd ever seen it. "I thought you'd come and gone."

"Just needed to grab the last box."

"Right." He crossed to the kitchen, opened the fridge. "Beer?"

She shouldn't. She'd made a rule about this, about the danger of this particular slippery slope. But the words tumbled out anyway: "Sure."

They sat on the floor, because he'd sold the couch. Barnaby climbed into Daniel's lap, kneading his sweater with practiced precision. Sarah remembered the night they got the **cat**—their first anniversary, a snowstorm trapping them inside for three days. They'd been so young then.

"My mother asked about you," Daniel said quietly. "She doesn't understand why we couldn't make it work."

"Neither do I, sometimes."

"Bullshit. You know exactly why."

She did. The job offer in Seattle. His refusal to leave his dying mother. The way she'd accused him of being trapped by obligation, and he'd called her emotionally void for suggesting he choose ambition over family.

"I'm **bearing** up fine," she'd told her therapist last week, using the word deliberately, trying to make herself believe it. But the truth was, she was exhausted from bearing it—this carefully constructed new life that felt more like performance than existence.

Daniel's phone buzzed. A text from someone named Elena. Sarah felt it like a physical blow, even though she had no right.

"You should go," he said gently. "Before this becomes something else."

She nodded, standing abruptly. The books could wait.

At the door, she paused. "Barnaby seems good."

"Yeah. He's adjusting."

"Me too."

She left the key on the counter. Outside, the spring air was mild, the city humming along without her. She walked toward the subway, reminding herself that some doors, once closed, were meant to stay that way. But her fingers ghosted over her phone, Maria's contact information glowing temptingly on the screen. Some habits were harder to **bear** than others, and loneliness was the worst of them.