What We Leave Behind

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of packing tape being ripped from cardboard dispenser—like a bandage torn from still-healing skin. Mara stood in the bedroom they'd shared for three years, watching Tomas separate his books from hers. His hair had grown longer since they'd met, curling now at his collar, and she resisted the urge to run her fingers through it one last time.

"The cat goes with you," Tomas said, not looking up from his stack. "I travel too much."

"Barnaby hates you," she said, though they both knew the cat tolerated him perfectly fine. It was just something to say, something to fill the terrible quiet between them.

"The dog's not negotiable."

"I never asked for Buster."

"You didn't have to. He chose you."

It was true—the elderly golden retriever had appeared at their door two years ago, collarless and determined, and had attached himself to Mara with a devotion she found embarrassing and touching in equal measure. Buster was currently sleeping at her feet, his warm weight the only thing keeping her grounded.

They'd been zombies for months, really—moving through their shared life on autopilot, both of them hollowed out by grief after her miscarriage, then by the staggering realization that they couldn't reach each other through it. The zombie phase had lasted so long that waking up felt like a betrayal.

"I'll take the plants," she said suddenly. "They need water. You'll forget."

Tomas finally looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired. "You don't even like plants. You killed every succulent I ever bought."

"I'll learn."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. Take them."

She looked around the room that had become a graveyard of their shared dreams. The cat would adjust. The dog would mourn, then recover. She would learn to water plants properly, or she would kill them and buy new ones. Something would grow, or something would die, and either way, life would continue.

"The landlord needs to know by Friday," he said.

"I know."

"Mara."

She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the same exhaustion reflected back that she felt in her own bones. They were waking up from the zombie years together, but they'd have to do it apart.

"Your hair looks good like that," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He smiled, small and genuine. "Yours too."

Buster stirred at her feet, sighing in his sleep. Somewhere, the cat was watching them both, knowing more than they did about endings and beginnings. There was water in the pipes, water in their eyes, water to carry them forward or hold them back, and either way, they would have to swim.