The Distance Between Screens

The treadmill's rhythmic hum became her meditation. Every morning at 5 AM, Maya found herself **running**, the belt beneath her feet carrying her nowhere while her mind raced everywhere. Three months since David left, and she'd perfected the art of motion without movement.

Her iPhone sat on the console, its dark screen reflecting her exhausted face in the gym's fluorescent lights. No messages. No missed calls. Just the silent accusation of a device that once connected her to everything she loved.

After her run, she walked to the grocery store in a haze of endorphins and exhaustion. The produce section brought her to her knees—not literally, but the **spinach** display might as well have. David used to make her that salad. The one with spinach, warm bacon, a perfectly poached egg. 'Maya's favorite,' he'd called it, as if naming it made it theirs forever.

She stood there, surrounded by fresh greens, remembering the Sunday mornings. The way he hummed while cooking. How he'd save the crunchiest pieces of bacon for her. The iPhone would sit on the kitchen counter, forgotten, because they had each other.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. Her heart performed that familiar, pathetic leap before she remembered: nobody called anymore. Not even him.

Maya grabbed a bag of spinach, throwing it into her cart with more force than necessary. An older woman watched her, sympathetic. 'He'll come back,' the woman said softly.

Maya almost laughed. 'That's not what I'm waiting for.'

She pushed her cart toward checkout, thinking about how she'd spent three months running from grief, waiting for a phone that stayed silent, avoiding spinach because it reminded her of love.

Tonight, she'd make the salad. She'd eat it alone. She'd leave her iPhone in the other room. And tomorrow, she'd run because she wanted to, not because she was fleeing something.

The treadmill could wait.