Terminal Velocity

The iphone buzzed on my nightstand at 2:47 AM, its screen cutting through the darkness like accusation. I groggily reached for it, my palm sweating against the cool glass. Another Slack notification from the team in Singapore. They didn't care that I'd been up until midnight fixing the deployment they'd broken.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling where shadows played in familiar patterns. Three years at this company, and I felt like something undead—a corporate zombie shuffling between meetings, commits, and code reviews, my soul eroding byte by byte.

My phone lit up again. Sarah. 'Can't sleep. Meet me at the field?'

The old baseball diamond behind the elementary school. We'd gone there a few weeks ago, after the company party where she'd found me hyperventilating in the bathroom. She'd sat with me on the bleachers, both of us tipsy on cheap wine, and talked about everything except work.

I threw on sweatpants and started running.

The air was crisp, autumn-scented with decay. My sneakers slapped against pavement in rhythm—breath, stride, breath, stride. Running was the only time I felt something like alive, my heart beating for a reason other than deadline stress.

Sarah was already there, sitting on home plate, legs dangling over the dirt. The moon caught the copper in her hair.

'They're doing another round of layoffs,' she said as I approached. 'My team.'

I sat beside her, our shoulders touching. 'Fuck.'

'Yeah.' She turned her phone over and over in her hands. 'I keep checking my email like it'll change something. Like the zombie apocalypse finally happened and I'm just waiting for someone to shoot me.'

I put my arm around her. She smelled like vanilla and exhaustion.

'My grandfather played baseball,' I said suddenly. 'Professional. Back when it meant something.'

She laughed softly. 'You tell me that every time we're here.'

'It's a good story.'

'What happened to him?'

'He died. That's the end.'

Sarah rested her head on my shoulder. 'You know what I keep thinking? How we spend our whole lives running toward things that don't matter. Money. Recognition. Some promotion that'll just mean more stress.' She held up her phone. 'These little rectangles that own us.'

'I ran here,' I said. 'That felt real.'

She looked up at me, her palm against my cheek. 'What else feels real?'

The question hung there like a pitch at the plate. I could give her a safe answer, something witty and detached. Or I could tell the truth.

'This,' I said. 'You. This moment.'

Sarah's phone buzzed. She didn't look at it. She kissed me instead, and for the first time in three years, the undead thing in my chest started beating again.