Goldfish

THREE

From the last doctor's visit, I had briefly found a renewed vigour and wanted to take control of my life. But as the months dragged by, that spark of energy faded, and I soon slipped back into old habits. Habits that Reuben quietly nurtured, catering to my insatiable appetite with every meal he brought. My hidden enabler. I couldn't stop myself, devouring everything he set before me. I could feel myself slipping further into a chasm within. The larger my body grew, the tighter its grip became, suffocating me in hopelessness and despair.

One evening, as Reuben set down my dinner, I realised my phone was missing. "Have you seen my phone?" I asked, puzzled by its sudden disappearance.

"Maybe it's fallen down the side of the bed. You're always losing things there," he replied, his expression thoughtful.

I glanced around as best I could, scanning the bed and the small space within my reach, but my phone was nowhere to be found. Sensing my concern, Reuben gave me a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. I'm sure it'll turn up. It can't have gone far. I'll check downstairs, just in case I scooped it up with the rubbish while I was tidying."

But the next day, my phone still hadn't surfaced. As Reuben brought me breakfast, I asked again, "Any luck finding my phone?"

He shook his head, his disappointment mirroring mine. "I'm sorry, Ellie. I even tried calling it, but there was no sign of it anywhere."

A vague unease settled over me, but I pushed it aside. It felt like one of those everyday mysteries, like misplaced keys or missing glasses. I assumed it would show up eventually. After all, Reuben was here, attentive as ever, keeping my world intact. Yet as the days passed, the absence of my phone lingered in my mind, a quiet, nagging reminder that my world had grown smaller than I'd ever imagined.

Later that day, I woke from an afternoon nap to an unsettling stillness. Reuben had gone out shopping, and the house felt hollow, as if it were holding its breath. From downstairs, I heard a faint buzzing-a low, steady hum, like something vibrating in the kitchen drawer where we kept odds and ends. The sound came in regular pulses, like a phone ringing on silent.

Unable to get up and check myself, I listened intently, my pulse quickening, but the sound soon stopped. Could it have been my phone? Surely, Reuben would have told me if he'd found it. A flicker of suspicion crossed my mind, but I brushed it aside, figuring it was probably Reuben's phone, left behind by accident.

The next day brought new frustrations.

"Have you changed the WiFi password?" I asked. "My iPad won't connect to the internet."

"Don't tell me your iPad's on the fritz too," Reuben replied, with a touch of concern. "They say these things happen in threes. God forbid the TV goes next!" He chuckled, but when he saw my disappointment, he placed a gentle hand on my arm. "Don't worry, we'll get it sorted. I'll reset the router when I go downstairs, and if that doesn't work, I'll make some calls."

Another day passed, and still there was no sign of my phone, and my iPad continued to have connection issues. Reuben came to me, visibly frustrated, venting about his call to the internet service provider. "I swear, they're useless. They couldn't figure it out, and now they're saying it'll take at least a week to send someone out."

"A week?" My heart sank.

He suggested taking my iPad to one of his friends, "someone who knows about these things," to check if the issue was with the device, not the broadband. I agreed without hesitation. I was desperate; without my phone or tablet, I realised just how tenuous my connection to the outside world had become.

And just like that, I was cut off completely, save for the flickering glow of my 32-inch TV.