The Bear in the Chest

Maya sat at the edge of the infinity **pool**, legs submerged in the unnaturally blue water. Fifty-two floors above Chicago, the city lights flickered like distant fireflies. She was supposed to be **running** five miles today—the cardio app on her **iPhone** had been nagging her since dawn—but her legs felt like lead.

The screen lit up. David.

She'd been **bearing** this weight for three weeks now—the texts, the calls, the careful silence when he came home late. The other night she'd found his **vitamin** supplements on the counter, same brand as always, but she'd noticed he'd started taking them again. He only took them when he was trying to be better, to be healthier. For whom?

Her phone vibrated again. 'We need to talk.'

Maya's heart began **running** inside her chest, a frantic rabbit desperate to escape. She remembered how they'd met by this same pool seven years ago—his laugh, the way he'd made her feel like the only person in the world. Now, at forty-one, she was becoming a statistic she'd read about in magazines while getting her hair done.

She stood up, water dripping from her thighs, and walked to the railing. The wind was cold. She opened her phone, found the last message from before the silence began: 'I don't know how to tell you this.'

Below, in the courtyard, she saw him. Standing there with another woman, his hand on her back.

The **bear** that had been hibernating in her stomach woke up, stretching its claws against her ribs. It wasn't anger—it was something older and deeper. The realization that she could lose everything, had already lost it, and yet remained standing.

She typed back: 'I know.' Then deleted it. Typed again: 'Come up.' Deleted.

Maya turned from the railing, grabbed her towel, and headed for the elevator. Some conversations happened face to face, even when you were terrified of what you'd see in someone's eyes.