What We Leave Behind

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter for three days before Mark finally looked at them again. His golden retriever, Buster, nudged his hand with that familiar insistence—the same way Martha used to when she wanted his attention.

"You hungry, buddy?" Mark's voice cracked. He hadn't spoken in days.

His iPhone buzzed. A notification from Sarah—his oldest friend, the one who'd warned him about Martha, the one who'd been right all along. "Thinking of you. Drinks tonight?"

He almost said yes. Instead, he found himself driving to the animal shelter, the empty passenger seat beside him still bearing the impression of Martha's purse.

The shelter smelled like antiseptic and desperation. A black cat with mismatched eyes watched him from behind glass, its tail twitching with calculated indifference. Something about those eyes—the way they seemed to see right through his carefully constructed facade.

"Her name was Lola," the volunteer said. "Owner passed. She's been here six months."

Mark signed the papers without thinking. The cat carrier sat beside him in the passenger seat, a weight that felt both terrifying and exactly right.

That night, Lola sat on his chest while Buster slept at his feet. His iPhone lit up with Sarah's message again: "You okay?"

Mark typed and deleted three responses before settling on the truth: "No. But I will be."

The cat purred, a rumble he felt in his ribs, and for the first time since Martha left, Mark didn't feel completely alone in his own life.