Papaya Season

She'd been running for three months when the papaya appeared on her doorstep. No note, just the fruit—perfectly orange, impossibly ripe, sitting there like an accusation.

"Your friend's back," her neighbor said, watching from across the hall. "The married one."

"He's not my friend," she said, though they both knew this was a lie.

Six months ago, David had told her he loved her over papaya pancakes at that brunch place downtown. They'd been running together then—morning jogs that turned into morning texts that turned into morning-after coffees. His wife was in the dark. His daughter was two. She was the other woman, except she wasn't. They were just friends running toward something they couldn't name.

Then he'd ended it. Said he loved his family. Said he was sorry. Said they couldn't even be friends anymore because it was too hard. That was three months ago.

Now the papaya sat on her counter, softening in the heat of her apartment. She'd thrown herself into running since he left—5Ks, 10Ks, training for a half-marathon she didn't even want to run. Anything to exhaust herself enough to sleep through the night.

Her phone buzzed. David. Can we talk?

She stared at the papaya until its orange skin seemed to pulse. Cut it open, her instincts said. Eat it. Move on. Instead, she laced up her running shoes and headed out into the humidity, pushing harder than she should have, her lungs burning, her phone silent in her pocket.

When she returned, the papaya was where she'd left it. David had texted fourteen times. The last one said: I left her. I'm scared. I don't know who I am without you both.

She sliced the papaya open. Black seeds. Fleshy orange. Sweet in a way that made her throat ache. She ate it standing over the sink, weeping without making a sound, realizing she'd been running from the wrong thing all along.

The phone rang. She let it go to voicemail, then picked it up and dialed back.