Ted's Narration, 2030
"And then there are those days when you think everything is going to get better. It's a small respite that fills you with hope, where you believe the worst is already behind you. But kids, the heart is a stubborn and foolish organ when it comes to handling your emotions. Just when you think healing from a breakup is a straight line, ghosts from the past you thought you'd left behind appear on the road, and the worst ones come when you've let your guard down."
Day 57
The following morning dawned with a different light in the apartment. It arrived with a feeling of total calm, like the moment before a storm that, unbeknownst to them, was about to break.
Alyx woke up on the usual sofa, as she had for nearly two months. The difference was that she didn't remember having slept before without waking up with a stiff neck, and less so having fallen asleep the night before while fully seated—only the memory of sitting there with Marshall beside her. She saw him on the other side of the coffee table, sleeping in the single armchair in a position that looked so uncomfortable yet so peaceful, a blanket over him.
Alyx watched him for a moment—his peaceful, relaxed expression. With a sigh, she began her daily ritual. She stood up and 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. By the time Marshall woke up, disoriented, she offered him a cup of coffee with sugar without saying a word.
"Thanks," he murmured, his voice still hoarse from sleep, settling better into 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 (which, as always, had been prepared by Alyx), and instead of staying in his room or sitting on the sofa watching TV, he sat at the dining table with his laptop, but 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?" Alyx asked softly.
"I don't know. Go to the park, take a walk, buy something that isn't beer or ice cream." "I definitely need to go back to work; savings won't last forever."
Alyx nodded in agreement. It was logical and sensible for getting back to life. But she also 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 law library at the university. He got lost among the various dusty shelves of books and articles, the scent of paper and ink helping 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 without really reading attentively, just jumping from one book to another to be alone in a space that was once entirely his.
As for Alyx, she stayed in the apartment. She didn't compulsively clean; the surfaces were already spotless. Instead, she faced the last vestige of disorder she hadn't been able to sort out: Lily's drawer in their shared bedroom. She opened it with a trembling hand. Inside, she found a few things: some old scarves, a pair of gloves, a half-used old sketchbook, and at the bottom, a Polaroid of the three of them together at Coney Island from last summer. In it, they were tanned and happy: Marshall acting 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 stated quietly, as if it were a forbidden truth.
That simple reminder made them both feel the emptiness, with Lily's memory persisting. The memory of every Sunday with her in the kitchen wearing a ridiculous apron, the radio blasting '70s music, the smoke and smell of sweet batter invading the apartment, with the two of them sitting at the counter, drooling and waiting for their turn.
A heavy silence settled for a brief moment.
"We could... not do it, like the last few weeks," Alyx suggested cautiously.
"Or we could do it," Marshall said with a tone of defiance, as if facing a battalion. "But if she, together..."
Alyx looked at him for a moment, finding in his eyes a fragile, wavering determination. She nodded.
The kitchen became a war zone. Marshall took charge of finding the mixing bowl, and Alyx the flour, but neither could find the baking powder because, even though Alyx cleaned everything meticulously, she never knew which jar Lily kept 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, becoming a mass difficult to cook.
Marshall looked at the pancake disaster and the kitchen itself, which was now reigning with some eggshells, flour, and sugar spilled little by little on the counter. This didn't bother him; instead, it made him burst into a loud, genuine laugh that hadn't been heard in months.
"My God, we're useless!" he said between guffaws.
Alyx, with flour smudges on her nose, couldn't help but laugh too—a clear, liberating sound.
"She had magic," Alyx admitted, wiping away a tear of laughter (apparently).
"Or we were spoiled disasters," Marshall corrected, tasting a charred edge and making a face. "Yuck! These are really bad."
Finally, between the two of them and 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 to Ted from her doorway.
"Wow," Ted said, coming out of the room and approaching the dining area. "And this?" he asked.
"It's Sunday Pancake Day," Marshall said softly, accompanied by a timid smile also visible on Alyx's face beside him, directed at Ted and Robin.
They sat at the dining table, the ghost of the ritual now occupied by a new reality—clumsy but tangible. As they chewed (and the pancakes, though decent, were somewhat uneven and a bit salty in parts, tasting of melancholy and effort), everyone ate, though Ted and Robin with more effort since they weren't used to the flavor.
After finishing, Ted and Robin 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 packaging in the trash.
"Are you sure?" Alyx asked.
"No, but I have to. I can't live off 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, all three of us, and we're not three anymore. 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. Something small for just me, probably."
Marshall stared fixedly at the floor. The mere idea of staying alone in the apartment, in a place haunted by the ghosts of two relationships, was terrifying. But the idea of Alyx leaving, of the last stable piece of his world disappearing, 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 of us, you know?"
It was true, even if it hurt. That Pancake Day, though different from so many others they'd had—not just because of the pancake flavor but also because it didn't end as joyfully as usual—ended with a silent and painful agreement. It was the official dissolution of what remained of their family unit.
Life, for the first time in years, was pushing them to be individuals again.