Running From Ourselves

The alarm blared at 4:30 AM. Marcus dragged himself out of bed, feeling like a **zombie** – three hours of sleep will do that to a man. His wife Carla stirred but didn't wake. She'd stopped waiting up for him months ago.

He laced up his running shoes and stepped into the predawn darkness. **Running** had become his only refuge, the brief hour when he wasn't answering emails, analyzing market trends, or pretending everything was fine.

The sky turned a bruised **orange** as the sun breached the horizon. Marcus pushed harder, his breath ragged in the cold air. At 42, he was VP at a hedge fund, pulling in seven figures, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt something real.

The **bull** market had been generous to him – too generous. His portfolio swelled while his marriage hollowed out. Carla had asked him last week if he even liked her anymore. He'd deflected with talk of the upcoming IPO, the quarterly targets, the bonus that would finally be enough.

It was never enough.

A massive shadow moved at the edge of the woods. A **bear**, real this time – not the market kind that could wipe out millions with a single bad call. Marcus stopped, heart hammering. The animal regarded him with ancient, indifferent eyes, then lumbered away.

He collapsed onto a park bench, sweating despite the chill. The bear had been more present in that moment than he'd been with Carla in years.

Marcus pulled out his phone, thumbs hovering over his trading app. Then he opened his contacts instead.

"Pick me up," he texted his broker. "Sell everything."

The response came instantly: "You sure? This bull run has legs."

"I'm sure," Marcus typed. "I'm done running from myself."

He started home. Carla would be awake soon. Maybe this time, he'd actually be there.