The Lightning Field

I'm running when the first bolt strikes. Not exercise—running away. From you, from the iPhone that's been dark for three days, from the question I can't answer anymore.

The abandoned swimming pool gapes before me, its surface still as glass until lightning fractures the sky, transforming the water into momentary fire.

I stop running. My chest heaves, sweat plastering my hair to my neck. It's the same way you liked it, after we swam together last summer, before the distance between us grew wider than this pool.

The iPhone buzzes in my pocket. Once. Twice.

I know what the messages say without looking. You, asking why I left. You, telling me you love me. You, promising to change.

But I saw the messages you didn't send. The ones to her. The ones where you said you felt trapped. The ones where you said you needed someone who understood you.

I pull out the phone anyway. Another lightning flash illuminates the screen, your name burning bright.

The pool reflects the storm, chaotic and beautiful. I remember floating here with you, my hair wet and spreading like dark ink in the water, your hands supporting me as I said I'd never felt this safe with anyone.

That was the lie I told myself.

I've been running for three days: from the apartment, from the life we built, from the realization that safety and love aren't the same thing.

The phone buzzes again. I don't answer.

I stand at the pool's edge as lightning transforms everything—the water, the night, my understanding of who I was when I was with you. Who I could be without you.

I start running again.

This time, not away.

Toward.