Ted's Narration, 2030
"Then come those days when you think everything will get better. It's a small respite that fills you with hope, where you believe the worst is over. But kids, the heart is a stubborn and foolish organ for managing your emotions. When you think healing from a breakup is a straight line, ghosts appear on the path you thought you left behind in your past, and the worst comes when you've let your guard down."
Day 57
The next morning dawned with a different light in the apartment. It arrived with a sense of total calm, as if before a storm that, unbeknownst to them, was about to appear.
Alyx woke up on her usual sofa, as she had for almost two months. The difference was she didn't remember having slept before without waking up with a stiff neck, and less so having fallen asleep completely the previous night. She only remembered sitting there with Marshall beside her. She saw him on the other side of the coffee table, in the armchair, sleeping in a position that looked so uncomfortable but so peaceful, covered by a blanket.
Alyx observed him for a moment—his peaceful, relaxed expression. With a sigh, Alyx began her daily ritual: she stood up, folded her blanket to put it away in the closet. Then, with a slight change in her routine, she didn't start frantically and methodically cleaning the living room as always. Instead, she carefully prepared her daily coffee, accompanied by toast. When Marshall woke up, disoriented, she offered him a cup of coffee with sugar, without saying a word.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice still hoarse from sleep, adjusting himself better in the armchair and removing the blanket.
"Breakfast in ten," she said calmly and went to shower.
The rest of the day consisted of small steps Marshall took on his own initiative: he showered, dressed in clean clothes (prepared by Alyx as always), and instead of staying in his room or sitting on the sofa watching TV, he sat at the dining table with his laptop, but he didn't even open it. He just sat in silence, reflecting to himself.
"I think I'm going... to do something," he said aloud, more to himself than to Alyx, who was at her desk.
"Like what?" asked Alyx softly.
"I don't know, go to the park, walk, buy something that isn't beer or ice cream." "Surely I need to go back to work; savings won't last forever."
Alyx nodded in agreement. It was a logical and sensible step back to life, but she understood his lack of enthusiasm, as if he were listing pending tasks he didn't want to do but had to.
However, when Marshall put on his sneakers and left, he didn't wander aimlessly. He went to the university's law library, lost among the various dusty shelves of books and articles, with the scent of paper and ink that helped him remember who he was before being the other half of Marshall and Lily, or a third of Marshall, Lily, and Alyx.
He spent several hours there, not precisely reading attentively, just jumping from one book to another to be alone in a space that was entirely his.
Meanwhile, Alyx stayed in the apartment. She didn't clean compulsively; the surfaces were already spotless. Instead, she faced the last vestige of disorder she hadn't been able to organize: Lily's drawer in their shared bedroom. She opened it with a trembling hand and found few things: some old scarves, a pair of gloves, an old half-used sketchbook, and at the bottom, a Polaroid photo of the three of them together at Coney Island from the previous summer. In it, they were tanned and happy: Marshall being silly with a paper hat, Lily laughing with her head thrown back, and Alyx in the middle, smiling shyly at the camera.
Alyx held the photo for a long time. Then, with a decisive movement, she didn't put it away or tear it up. Instead, she took it to her desk and propped it up facing the living room. It wasn't to torture herself. Just a reminder of what was, and perhaps her way of saying without words that good things, even broken, always deserve to be seen.
Day 67
"It's Sunday," Marshall uttered the words, standing in the middle of the living room, dressed in sweatpants and an old university t-shirt. Alyx, who was focused on paying bills online, looked up.
"Yes, it is," Alyx agreed calmly.
"Sunday is… pancake day," Marshall said in a low voice, as if it were forbidden.
That mere reminder made them both feel the emptiness with the persistent memory of Lily. Every Sunday with her in the kitchen, wearing a ridiculous apron, the radio blasting '70s music, smoke and the smell of sweet batter filling the apartment, with the two of them sitting at the counter, drooling and waiting their turn.
A heavy silence settled for a brief moment.
"We could… not do it, like these past weeks," suggested Alyx cautiously.
"Or we could do it," said Marshall with a tone of defiance, as if facing a battalion. "But us, together."
Alyx looked at him for a moment, finding in his eyes a fragile, wavering determination. And she nodded.
The kitchen became a war zone. Marshall was in charge of finding the mixing bowl, and Alyx the flour, but neither could find the baking powder since, although Alyx cleaned everything well, she never knew which jar Lily had stored it in. The first batch of pancakes came out as hard as bricks and surprisingly burnt on the outside but raw inside. The second batch fell apart in the pan like water, making it a difficult batter to cook.
Marshall looked at the pancake disaster and the kitchen itself, which was now ruled by some eggshells, flour, and sugar scattered on the counter. None of this bothered him; instead, it made him burst into loud, genuine laughter that hadn't been seen for months.
"My God, we're useless!" he said between laughs.
Alyx, with flour stains on her nose, couldn't help but laugh too—a clear, liberating sound.
"She had magic," admitted Alyx, wiping away a tear of laughter (apparently).
"Or we were spoiled disasters," corrected Marshall, tasting a charred edge and making a face. "Yuck! These are really bad."
Finally, between the two of them, with the help of Google on Alyx's laptop, they managed to produce a stack of presentable pancakes. They weren't perfect—some were uneven, too wide or too thin. They weren't as perfectly identical, sweet, and tender as Lily's, but they were theirs.
As they placed the pancakes on the table, Robin emerged from Ted's room.
"Ted, look," Robin called from her door to Ted.
"Wow," said Ted, coming out of the room and approaching the dining area. "And this?" he asked.
"It's Sunday pancake day," said Marshall softly, accompanied by a shy smile that was also seen on Alyx beside him, directed at Ted and Robin.
They sat at the dining table. The ghost of the ritual was now occupied by a new reality—clumsy but tangible. While they chewed (and the pancakes, though decent, were a bit uneven and in some parts a little salty, tasting of melancholy and effort), everyone ate, though Ted and Robin with more effort since they weren't used to the taste. When they finished, they went to Ted's room while Marshall and Alyx cleaned up the kitchen mess. Marshall spoke.
"I'm going back to work tomorrow," he said while throwing eggshells and empty wrappers in the trash.
"Are you sure?" asked Alyx.
"No, but I have to. I can't live on failed pancakes and sadness forever."
Alyx nodded. "I… think I'm going to start looking for a place."
Marshall stopped tidying up. "What? Why?"
"Because this…" she made a vague gesture encompassing the apartment "Was ours, the three of us, and we're no longer three. And you and I… we're not -this-." She didn't say it as a reproach or with bitterness, just as a stated fact.
"But where would you go?" he asked hesitantly.
"I don't know, a studio. Surely something small for myself."
Marshall stared at the floor. The mere idea of being alone in the apartment, in a place that held the ghosts of two relationships, was terrifying. But the idea of Alyx leaving, that the last stable piece of his world would vanish, was even more so.
"You don't have to go," he whispered.
"Not yet," she agreed. "But soon it will be. We both need space to redefine our lives outside of being the three, you know?"
It was true, even if it hurt. That pancake day, although different from so many others they had had—not only because of the pancake's taste but also because it didn't end as always with a cheerful day, but with a silent and painful agreement—marked the official dissolution of what remained of their family unit.
For the first time in years, life was pushing them to be individuals again.