The Last Race We Run

Maria's palm sweated against the steering wheel as she sat in the hospital parking lot, the dashboard clock glowing 5:47 AM. She'd been running from this conversation for three months, ever since the specialist first said the word out loud. Early onset. Progressive. No cure.

Inside, David sat in his hospital gown, the same orange fabric she'd grown to hate after three rounds of chemotherapy that hadn't worked. He was twenty-eight, and they were discussing assisted living facilities.

She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. Her running shoes—the expensive ones she'd bought when she still believed they could outrun this together—sat in the passenger seat, mocking her. She'd taken up running after his diagnosis, logging miles before dawn, pushing until her lungs burned and her legs gave out, as if physical exhaustion could somehow compensate for what his body was losing.

"You're running yourself into the ground," her sister had said yesterday, and Maria had almost laughed. Ground was exactly where David was headed.

Her phone buzzed. David's brother: He's asking for you.

Maria straightened up, caught her reflection in the rearview mirror—hollow eyes, skin pulled too tight across her cheekbones. She looked like someone running on fumes, which was exactly right. She grabbed the orange juice bottle from the cupholder, his favorite brand, and realized her hand was shaking.

In his room, David was attempting to peel himself an orange, his fingers fumbling with the rind. The tremor was worse today. He looked up and smiled, and she felt something crack open inside her chest.

"Thought you'd gone for a run," he said softly.

Maria crossed the room and took the orange from his hands, their palms brushing. His skin was cool. She finished what he'd started, separating the fruit into segments, feeding him piece by piece like she had when they were first dating, sitting on his apartment floor, neither of them admitting they were falling in love.

"I'm done running," she said, and it was true. The truth was, you couldn't run from something that was already happening. You could only hold on. David took her hand, his grip weak but present, and Maria understood: this wasn't the end of anything. It was just the hardest part.