Bear Witness

Margot's running shoes hit the pavement at 5:47 AM, exactly when they did every morning. The rhythm was her anchor—left, right, left, right—especially now, when everything else in her marriage felt suspended in that terrible ambiguity before the end.

She'd started making spinach smoothies after David stopped coming to bed. Something about taking care of herself when he'd stopped taking care of them. The green sludge sat heavy in her stomach as she turned onto the trail that wound behind their subdivision.

This morning, though, the trail was blocked.

A black bear stood twenty feet ahead, inscrutable as a judge, chewing on something in the tall grass. Margot stopped. Her heart, already elevated from the run, hammered against her ribs.

The bear looked at her. It didn't charge. It didn't retreat. It just watched with eyes that held an ancient, patient weighing. Then it returned to its meal, dismissing her as unworthy of fear.

Margot realized she wasn't afraid. She was envious.

The bear knew what it wanted. It took what it needed. It didn't pretend to be something it wasn't, didn't make excuses about 'working late' or 'not ready to talk about it.' It simply existed, hungry and honest.

She thought of the spinach smoothie, sour in her throat. She thought of David's hollow voice last night, saying nothing with so many words. She thought of how long she'd been running from this moment—how many mornings she'd pounded the pavement hoping to exhaust herself enough not to feel.

The bear finished, licked its paw, and ambled into the woods.

Margot walked home. She didn't run. She let the morning cool against her skin and thought about what she would say to David when he emerged from the guest room, or whether she would say anything at all.

Some things you bear. Some things you don't.

The spinach waited in the blender, already wilting.