Electric Static

The treadmill was supposed to be salvation, but Maria was just running in place, chasing the same digital line on the screen while the gym's fluorescent lights hummed their oppressive melody. At 11:47 PM, GoodFitness was a temple of the desperate and the disciplined, though she couldn't tell which category she belonged to anymore.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open — a violent fracture of white that made the wall of windows flicker like a dying monitor. The storm had been brewing for hours, much like the message she'd been avoiding on her iPhone, screen glowing beside her water bottle like a small, judgmentful moon.

Three missed calls from David. A text that read: "I think we need to talk about Sunday."

Maria increased the speed. The machine whined in protest.

Sunday. The dinner party where she'd watched him laugh at someone else's jokes, noticed the way his eyes lingered on his coworker's hands as they reached across the table for the spinach dip. Green flecks on his collar later. She'd said nothing. She never said anything anymore, just accumulated quiet moments like debris in her chest.

Her phone lit up again. Another message.

The treadmill display showed her heart rate: 167, 168, 172. She was running from a conversation she'd already had in her head twelve times, each version ending with her voice cracking, saying something devastating and final. Instead she was here, sweat dripping down her spine, while the storm outside mirrored everything she wouldn't let herself feel.

Lightning struck closer this time. The power flickered.

The treadmill slowed to a halt, its digital face going dark. In the sudden silence, Maria's iPhone buzzed against the plastic cup holder, vibrating with an urgency that made her hand tremble when she reached for it.

David's message: "It's not what you think. Can I come over?"

She stood motionless in the dark gym, sweat cooling on her skin, watching the lightning paint the parking lot in flashes of stark, exposing white. The spinach-stained collar. The way he'd stopped touching her first.

She typed: "Don't."

Then deleted it. Typed: "Please do."

Deleted that too.

The phone went dark in her hand, and for a moment, in the silence between lightning strikes, Maria understood exactly how little it mattered what she said next. She was still just running in place.