The Distance Between Things

Elena's alarm sounded at 4:45 AM, as it had for eleven years. She rose without thinking, muscle memory guiding her through the dark apartment. The cat — Barnaby, her ex-husband's parting gift — wound around her ankles, purring with the weight of a creature who'd never known uncertainty. She filled his bowl, then swallowed her vitamins: B-complex for energy, D3 for mood regulation, magnesium for sleep. Three capsules, one goal: maintenance.

Outside, the city was still grey with pre-dawn fog. She began running, her breath rhythmic against the silence. Three miles in, her phone buzzed in her armband. She ignored it until she'd showered and dressed in her most intimidating blazer, the navy one that said 'I don't need you to like me.'

The voicemail was from her mother, sounding drunk at 7 AM. 'Your father's vitamin D levels were critically low. They think that's why he fell.' Elena closed her eyes. Her father had been running on the beach when his heart gave out. Six months ago. She hadn't visited the grave.

At work, David from M&A caught her at the espresso machine. 'You're running yourself into the ground, El. You look like you haven't slept since —'

'Since when?'

He didn't answer. They both knew. Since her mother called that morning. Since her promotion went to Marcus, who played golf with the senior partner. Since she'd started running until her lungs burned, because pain was easier than feeling nothing at all.

'My cat needs me,' she said, and left early.

Barnaby met her at the door, vocalizing his dinner demands with aristocratic entitlement. She dropped to her knees, burying her face in his orange fur. He smelled like sunbeams and unconditional regard, two things she'd forgotten how to absorb. Her phone buzzed again — David, probably, or her mother seeking comfort she couldn't give.

Instead, she opened the cabinet and counted her remaining vitamin bottles. Three weeks of supplements, no guarantee of anything. Barnaby head-butted her hand, demanding attention. Outside, the sun finally broke through.

She laced up her running shoes. But this time she didn't set the alarm, didn't calculate her pace, didn't measure the distance. She just ran until she could feel something real, carrying the weight of all the things she couldn't fix, moving toward whatever came next.