Fresh Start

Maya bought the papaya on impulse. The fruit stand lady gave her a strange look—who buys a single papaya at 7 AM on a Tuesday—but Maya didn't care. David hated papaya. Called it mushy and insipid. She'd spent seven years avoiding things David hated.

She was done with that now.

The door clicked behind her, and she forced herself not to look back at the house where she'd spent a decade. Her apartment was five miles away. She could have taken the car—David's car, technically—but her running shoes were already laced.

Running was easier than thinking.

Three miles in, her phone buzzed. Sarah.

Maya slowed to a walk, chest heaving. "Hey."

"You did it?" Sarah's voice was warm, familiar. "You actually left him?"

"Yeah."

Silence stretched between them, charged with everything Sarah wasn't saying. You should have done this years ago. We all knew. I told you so.

"My friend," Sarah said finally, "I'm proud of you. But also—what the fuck took so long?"

Maya laughed, and it came out rusty. "Fear. Habit. The usual."

"Well." Sarah's voice softened. "The cat missed you. She's been yowling for two days straight."

Cleo. Maya had left her cat behind when she moved into David's place. Another concession. Another thing she'd given up without noticing. "Can I come get her?"

"Anytime."

By the time Maya reached Sarah's apartment, sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. She caught her reflection in the lobby mirror—tangled, dark strands going gray at the temples. David had always hated when she stopped dyeing it. Said she looked old.

She ran a hand through it. Maybe she'd stop dyeing it altogether now.

Sarah opened the door and enveloped her in a hug that smelled like vanilla and cat litter. Cleo wound around Maya's ankles, purring like a small engine.

"There she is," Sarah said. "Your baby."

Maya scooped up the cat, buried her face in soft fur. Something inside her loosened, a knot she'd forgotten was there.

"Hungry?" Sarah asked. "I bought groceries. Even got you that papaya crap you like."

Maya laughed through sudden tears. "I love you, Sarah."

"Yeah, yeah." Sarah grinned. "Now go shower. You smell like sweat and freedom."

That night, Maya sat on Sarah's couch with a bowl of papaya chunks and a purring cat in her lap. For the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was waiting for something to begin.

It already had.