The Seventh Inning Stretch

The stadium lights hummed against the twilight as Sarah sat in section 204, row 12, seat 8—David's seat. Three empty beer cups lined the row in front of her. She'd been here for four innings, watching the Dodgers lose spectacularly, but she wasn't really watching the game. She was running through the last conversation they'd had, the one that ended everything.

"I need you to be present," he'd said, his voice cracking in that way that made her chest ache. "Not just physically here. All the way here."

She'd accused him of being dramatic. She'd listed every sacrifice she'd made—moving cities, taking a lower-paying job, attending his mother's funeral even though they'd only been dating six months. But somewhere along the way, she'd started keeping parts of herself locked away, pieces she thought too messy or too broken for their carefully constructed life.

The batter hit a foul ball that sailed toward the stands. Sarah didn't flinch. Her fingers twisted through the copper hair she'd stopped dyeing back to brown after David left. He used to bury his hands in it when they made love, whispering that it was like holding sunset. Now it was just hair, just dead protein growing out of her head, no more magical than the baseball diamond below.

She remembered the night he moved out. They'd sat on the bathroom floor, sharing a bottle of whiskey, as he packed his toiletries. She'd cried into the sink, her tears mixing with the running water while he shaved his beard for the last time. "You're drowning, Sarah," he'd said, his razor scraping against his skin. "And you won't grab the hand I'm offering."

The seventh inning stretch music swelled. Everyone around her stood, but Sarah remained seated, her breath catching in her throat. The truth was, she hadn't been running from David—she'd been running toward herself, or what was left of her after years of becoming the person everyone else needed. The water had been rising for so long, so gradually, that she hadn't noticed she was barely staying above the surface.

The scoreboard clock ticked onward. She stood up, finally, leaving David's seat empty behind her. The baseball game continued without her, but for the first time in years, Sarah felt like she might actually be playing.