Palm Reads and Digital Ghosts

The air conditioning in Dr. Morse's office was always too cold, but today it felt necessary. I was running late again—third time this month—and the implication hung heavy as I collapsed into the leather chair across from her. She didn't comment. She just waited, pen hovering over her notebook, palm exposed on the desk like an invitation.

"Your wife called again," she said gently. "She's worried about you."

I pulled my iPhone from my pocket, the screen lighting up with missed notifications. Three texts from Sarah, two from work, one from my mother checking in. The blue light illuminated the dark circles under my eyes in the reflection of the window. "Everyone's worried," I said, voice rougher than intended. "No one knows what to say."

"What do you need them to say?" Dr. Morse asked.

"That it's not my fault."

The silence stretched between us like taut wire. Outside, summer rain streaked the glass, distorting the world beyond. I thought about last night—how I'd ended up at the hotel pool at 2 AM, swimming laps in the darkness until my muscles burned and my mind went quiet. The water had been cold, shocking me into something like clarity. The lifeguard had found me shivering on the deck, towel wrapped around my waist, staring at the tattoo on my forearm—Sarah's name in elegant script I couldn't bear to look at anymore.

"I keep thinking about the accident," I admitted finally. "Every single day. What if I'd been five minutes earlier? What if I'd taken a different route?"

Dr. Morse set down her pen. "You're running from grief, David. You can't outpace it."

"I'm not trying to outrun it." I looked at my phone again. Sarah's last message: "Please come home. We need to talk."

"What are you afraid will happen if you stop?"

"That I'll drown in it."

She smiled sadly. "You already are."

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Sarah. I opened it this time: a photo of our daughter, Emma, sleeping with her favorite stuffed elephant, the one her brother had given her three days before the car crash that took him. Three days before I chose to work late instead of driving them to soccer practice. Three days that now felt like three lifetimes.

"Swimming helps," I said, voice cracking. "The water... it makes me weightless. Like I don't have to carry anything."

"But you always have to come back to shore."

I stared at my palm, the lines etched there more pronounced than I remembered. Life line, heart line, head line—all intersecting, overlapping, impossible to separate. Just like grief and love and guilt and the memory of his laugh.

"She wants a divorce," I whispered, the truth finally taking shape in the room between us. "Sarah. She said she can't watch me disappear into myself anymore."

Dr. Morse nodded, like she'd been expecting this. "What do you want?"

The question hung there, impossible and necessary. Outside, the rain intensified, blurring the world into watercolor smears. I thought about Emma's smile, about the way Sarah's hand fit in mine, about the way Tyler used to jump into the pool without checking if anyone was watching— fearless, joyful, alive.

"I want to stop running," I said finally. "Even if it means drowning first."