What We Let In

The goldfish circled his bowl, that endless loop she'd come to resent after three years of marriage. Martin was on the couch again, face illuminated by his iPhone, scrolling through things that mattered more than her spinach and ricotta ravioli, now cold on the table.

"I'm sorry," he said, not looking up. "Just need to finish this email."

The cat, Barnaby, wound through her legs, purring like a machine. She'd picked him from a shelter on their first anniversary, another living thing to fill the spaces between them. Now even the cat seemed to sense it—how they'd become roommates who shared a bed and a mortgage.

She watched Martin's face in the blue light. He used to look at her like that. Like she was the most interesting thing in the room.

"Your water's getting warm," she said, meaning the glass she'd poured forty minutes ago. Meaning everything.

He finally looked up. "Sarah?"

She'd been crying earlier in the shower—real water, hot and punishing, until her skin felt raw. He hadn't noticed.

"I'm done, Martin."

He set down the phone. The screen went dark. "Done with what?"

"Pretending. Waiting for you to come back to me."

For a moment, neither spoke. The goldfish kept swimming. Barnaby stopped purring.

Then Martin reached for her hand, his fingers tentative, like she was something that might break. "I thought—I thought you stopped wanting me to."

"I never stopped," she said, and something broke open in her chest. "I just stopped hoping."

Later, they'd talk about it really. About the affair with his phone, with work, with everything that wasn't them. They'd eat cold ravioli and feed the fish and maybe, finally, begin again.

But in that moment, Martin stood up and crossed the room, and she let herself be held.