Running From Nothing

Her hair was different now. The auburn waves that had once caught light like spun copper had gone mouse-terrible and flat, fallen victim to three years of corporate compromise and Monday mornings she couldn't quite remember.

That's what she noticed at 5:47 AM on the treadmill, staring at herself in the gym mirror — how the physical evidence of decline had been happening while she'd been too busy to notice. Running at mile repeat pace, lungs burning, heartbeat hammering in her ears like something trying to break out from inside.

She'd been running from something lately. Or toward something. The distinction had blurred.

"You're like a zombie," David had told her two nights ago, halfway through an argument about whose turn it was to wash dishes. He hadn't meant it cruelly. Just observational. "You're here, but you're not really here."

The worst part was he was right.

She'd fallen into it gradually — the comfort of routine, the ease of emotional autopilot, days blurring into sameness. Work, gym, sleep, repeat. She'd mastered the art of performance. Going through motions like someone who'd memorized the choreography but forgotten the music.

Her phone buzzed on the treadmill console. David. Probably apologizing. Probably thinking he'd been too harsh.

She slowed to a walk, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her spine. Outside, the sky was that particular shade of violet that exists for maybe five minutes before dawn. The gym was otherwise empty.

She could keep running. Could finish this workout, go home, shower, go to work, and do it all again tomorrow. Could become the kind of person who lived her life in future tense, waiting for some future moment when she'd finally feel alive.

Or she could stop.

She stepped off the treadmill, grabbed her phone, and dialed him.

"You're right," she said when he picked up, voice raspy from exertion. "I'm not here. But I want to be."

Somewhere in the quiet between heartbeats, something inside her stirred. Not waking up — it was smaller than that, more fragile. But it was movement. It was momentum. It was the opposite of running away.

She touched her hair, already planning the salon visit, and walked toward the exit doors.