Inside, I set her on her designated spot. She immediately gets up and waddles back to the door.
“We’re not doing this again.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“Fine. Stay there. See if I care.”
I make coffee. Check emails. Pretend to review a brief. Muffin keeps scratching.
“You know what your problem is?” I tell her. “You don’t know when to quit.”
She pauses. Looks at me. Goes back to scratching.
“She left, okay? Went to Italy. Probably drinking wine and… eating pasta and… being happy without us.”
Muffin whines.
I microwave leftover risotto and eat it straight from the Tupperware, standing by the kitchen counter while Muffin sighs into her bowl. The dining table sits across the room—set with exactly zero place settings, surrounded by chairs I haven’t used since the night I made risotto for Poppy. I built this life for efficiency. For order. And yet lately, all I can see is the empty space where something could be. Should be.
I rinse the container, wipe down the spotless counter, and open my laptop again.
There’s nothing lonelier than silence pretending to be peace.
My phone buzzes. Work email. I delete it without reading.
“You want to know something messed up?” I sit on the floor next to Muffin. “I keep catching the scent of her. Like, everywhere. How can someone’s perfume linger like that?”
Muffin settles next to me, finally giving up on the door.
“Found a bobby pin in my couch yesterday. Just… sitting there. Like it belongs.”
She rests her head on my knee. I pat it softly.
“And George won’t shut up. Just stands on the lawn screaming at nothing. Nadine says he’s ‘processing’.” I huff out an exhale. “Remind me I need to order him more goat feed from Amazon, by the way.”
A soft wheeze. Muffin’s version of agreement.
“Be careful,” I mutter to myself, sitting on my living room floor with Muffin sprawled across my lap. “That’s what I said. After everything that happened between us, I told her to be careful.”
The words taste like regret every time I replay them. Which is approximately every five minutes.
I keep seeing that look in her eyes when I said it. Like I’d kicked something small and defenseless. Or destroyed some small part of her. I hate it. Hate myself even more.
I wanted to say more. God, I wanted to say everything. The words were right there, caught in my throat like shards of glass.But maybe that’s the problem—she makes me feel things I can’t name. Things I definitely can’t want.
I sigh, running my hand through Muffin’s fur. “Could’ve said anything else. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I’ll miss you.’ ‘Please don’t go.’ But no. I went with ‘be careful’ like I’m her damn travel agent.”
“Well, isn’t this cozy.”
I look up. Nadine’s standing in my doorway because apparently nobody knocks anymore.
“It’s called depression,” I say flatly.
“It’s called Tuesday afternoon.” She lets herself in, naturally. “Is Muffin bothering you?”
“Always.”
“Want me to take her?”
