Storms We Run Through

Maya hit the pavement at 2 AM, running harder than usual, her sneakers slapping against the wet asphalt. The November storm had been threatening all evening, and now the sky was opening up. Running was the only thing that quieted the grief these days — the rhythm of her breath, the ache in her muscles, the way exhaustion left no room for memories of Julian.

Then lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the alley beside Julian's old building. Maya stopped, bent double with her hands on her knees, trying to remember how to breathe. She hadn't passed this way in six months. Not since the funeral.

A flash of white in the doorway. A cat — Julian's cat, Bombay silk and gold eyes, watching her with maddening calm. Maya had never liked the damn thing, but Julian had loved her. "She outlives us all," he'd say, scratching behind her ears. "Plan accordingly."

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The thunder that followed rattled Maya's teeth. She started toward the cat, then stopped. This was where they'd first kissed, tipsy and twenty-four, against this very doorway. This was where Julian had collapsed, that sunny Tuesday morning, while the cat sat watching from the steps.

"You're still here," Maya whispered, crouching down. The cat approached slowly, pressing her side against Maya's soaked jeans. The warmth of her was startling.

The storm was breaking now, rain sheeting down. Maya should keep running — that was the routine, wasn't it? Run until the body gave out, run until the memories blurred at the edges. Run away from the life she'd almost had, the wedding never planned, the years they'd never get.

But she stayed there, on her knees in the alley, while lightning sketched the city into moments of terrible brightness. Letting herself remember. Letting herself feel. For the first time in six months, not running at all.