The Miles Between Us

Elena's feet hit the pavement at 5:47 AM, exactly when they had for eight months. Running wasn't exercise anymore; it was penance. Three miles of rhythmic punishment for the friend she hadn't saved.

The streetlights still flickered when she turned onto Oak Street. That's when she saw him—David, walking Buster, the golden retriever they'd adopted together. The dog's gray muzzle had grown paler since October. Elena slowed her pace, though she never stopped. Protocol demanded they exchange nods and keep moving.

"She would've hated this," David said one Tuesday, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Us pretending to be strangers."

Elena kept running. "We're not pretending."

"You were her best friend."

"And you were her husband. We both failed her."

The next morning, Buster bolted when David's grip faltered. Elena caught the dog's leash before he reached the intersection. For thirty seconds, she held the leather harness, feeling the weight of everything she'd avoided saying. Buster pressed his head against her leg, his tail creating small, desperate circles against her calves.

"He still waits by the door," David said, not meeting her eyes. "Every morning. Like she's just late for work."

Elena's throat tightened. "She told me about the affair. Two weeks before."

David's face crumbled.

"She said she forgave you. Said you'd both been running from something for years, and it was time to stop."

Buster whined, pressing between them.

"I never told you," Elena continued, her voice steady though her hands trembled. "Because I was jealous. That you both had each other, even with the mess. And I was just the friend who heard everything but had nothing of my own."

David finally looked at her. "She left me a letter. About you. Said you needed someone to stop running with. Someone who understood that some miles are best covered slowly."

Elena released Buster's leash. "I'm not ready."

"Neither am I." David's hand found Buster's collar again. "But we could walk the dog together. Sometimes."

Elena nodded once. Then she resumed running, her pace slower now. For the first time in eight months, she didn't run to escape. She ran because she'd finally started toward something.