Dry Land

The alarm blared at 4:30 AM, same as every morning. Elena dragged herself from bed, muscles still aching from yesterday's ten-miler, but the running called to her. It was the only time she could hear herself think.

Three months after David walked out, and she still hadn't decided if she was chasing something or running away.

The predawn streets were hers alone. Her breath clouded in the chill as her feet found their rhythm against the pavement. This was her church—no emails, no meetings demanding she be decisive, brilliant, perpetually available. Just the thud of her sneakers and the gradual surrender of her shoulders dropping away from her ears.

The drought had turned the neighborhood into a tinderbox. Lawns crisped into straw, trees dropping leaves like they'd given up. When she reached the park fountain, bone-dry since July, she finally slowed to a walk. The city had posted signs: CONSERVE WATER. But what did that mean when her entire emotional landscape felt like a desert?

David's ghost dogged her steps. In grocery stores, she'd reach for two, then remember. At work, she caught herself composing texts to send him about some minor victory or absurd corporate catastrophe, only to delete them before the first word landed.

Her team called her the machine. She'd delivered three quarters ahead of schedule while her marriage disintegrated. They didn't see the zombie pacing her apartment at 2 AM, rewatching the same episode of some show she couldn't remember, eating cereal over the sink because proper meals felt like too much ceremony for one.

The corporate world rewarded her zombie state. They loved employees who could function on autopilot, who could shake hands and smile through meetings while their personal lives smoldered. What was burnout but accelerated productivity?

A single raindrop hit her wrist, startling her. Another struck the dry fountain rim with a soft plink. The sky opened, sudden and fierce.

Elena stood there as the water came down, soaking her running clothes, plastering her hair to her skull. She tipped her head back and let it wash over her, finally allowing herself to feel everything she'd been holding at bay.

The drought would break eventually. Everything did.

She turned toward home, walking now, feeling the water cool against her skin, heavy and real. Tomorrow she'd run again. But tonight, she'd just let herself be washed clean.