Signal Loss

The cable snapped somewhere between mile three and four of her morning run, Elena realized, slumping against the rough bark of a palm tree. Not an actual cable—those were buried deep somewhere she couldn't see—but the invisible one that had tethered her to Marcus for seven years, to their marriage, to the version of herself she'd promised to become.

She'd flown to Cabo alone. Marcus had called it dramatic; she called it survival.

The resort pool shimmered below her balcony, a turquoise rectangle filled with people who seemed to know how to exist without feeling like frauds. Elena pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the sliding door, watching a woman in a wide-brimmed hat order her third cocktail before noon. The woman laughed at something the bartender said, head thrown back, unburdened.

Elena's phone lit up again. Marcus's name.

Running had been Marcus's idea initially—a way to channel her anxiety into something productive, he'd said. But somewhere along the way, the rhythm of her sneakers on pavement had become the only time she could hear herself think. The only time she wasn't performing.

She grabbed the phone, hovered over decline, then—

"I'm not coming back," she said when he answered, her voice steadier than she felt.

Silence on the other end. Then: "You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being honest. For the first time."

The palm tree outside her window cast long shadows across the room as the afternoon wore on. By evening, she'd packed her things, left Marcus's favorite hat on the bed—a small, petty gesture that felt enormous.

The pool was empty when she slipped in, the water cool against her skin, forgiving. She floated on her back, staring up at a sky so dark it looked spilled, and finally—finally—felt like she was the one swimming, not drowning.