The Last Good Morning

The alarm screamed at 6:30 AM, and for three seconds, she lay there convincing herself that consciousness was optional. Then she remembered the mortgage, the performance review on Thursday, and the way David had looked at her across the dinner table last night—like she was a stranger he was evaluating for a rental agreement.

She dragged herself to the kitchen. Barnaby, her elderly golden retriever, thumped his tail against the refrigerator door in a rhythm of desperate hope.

"You're the only one who's genuinely happy to see me," she murmured, filling his bowl. He'd been her salvation since the divorce proceedings began three months ago, a living, breathing argument for getting out of bed each morning.

Her phone buzzed. David: 'Can we talk tonight?'

She stared at the message until the screen dimmed. They'd been 'talking' for weeks now—conversations that were actually monologues, circles of apologies that led nowhere, feelings expressed like transactional offers. She was tired of being the only one carrying the emotional labor of their marriage's collapse.

The subway ride was its usual kind of mortuary. Thirty people pressed together, none speaking, all scrolling or staring into middle distance with the hollowed-out expressions of the commuting dead. A **zombie** apocalypse had already happened, she thought—it was called corporate capitalism, and they'd all been infected so gradually that no one noticed.

At 32nd Street, a woman's phone erupted with joyous laughter from a TikTok. The sharp happiness in the car was almost painful, like lemon juice on a papercut. The woman looked up, caught Maya's eye, and shrugged—she wasn't sorry.

Maya's phone buzzed again. David: 'Please?'

The train doors opened at Times Square, and for no reason she could name, she stayed on the platform. Let the doors close. Let her office wonder where she was. Let the spreadsheet wait.

She stepped off the train and walked up the stairs into the gray morning, toward the park, **running** on pure instinct and something like courage. Barnaby would be confused by her early return, but he'd forgive her. He always did.

The world felt sharp and immediate. The cold air stung her lungs. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk with a rhythm that was entirely her own.

David called. She let it ring.

Some things, she decided, needed to stay dead.