Routes We Run

The soles of Marcus's running shoes struck the pavement at 5:12 AM, a rhythm he'd cultivated since Elena left three months ago. Each footfall was an exorcism, driving her ghost from the muscle memory of their morning routine together.

His iPhone buzzed in his armband — a work email from someone who didn't understand boundaries. He ignored it. The device had become a tether to a world he wasn't ready to rejoin. Notifications stacked up like unpaid bills: reminders to call his mother, updates from his running group, a single unanswered text from his brother asking if he was still alive.

He turned onto Oak Street, past the old baseball diamond where his father had taught him to swing a bat at age seven, where he'd brought Elena on their third date, where she'd told him she wanted children two years later. The chain-link fence stood rusted and mute, guarding ghosts of optimism he couldn't afford to entertain anymore.

The vitamin bottle sat on his kitchen counter at home — Elena's parting gift, a month's supply of D3 and omega-3s with a note: Take care of yourself. Please. He took one every morning with a full glass of water, following instructions he couldn't bring himself to deviate from, as if devotion to her final request might somehow summon her back through alchemy.

His lungs burned. He was running faster than usual, pushing toward something that kept receding. The sky began to bruise purple at the edges, dawn threatening to expose him.

Marcus stopped at the corner, hands on knees, sweat dripping onto his shoes. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over her contact. The screen reflected his face — older, wearier than the man who'd watched baseball with his dad, who'd believed in the vitamin promise of forever.

He typed: I'm still running.

Then deleted it.

He typed: The water's fine here.

Deleted that too.

Marcus pocketed the phone and started running again. Some routes you finish alone. Some routes you never finish at all.