The Storm We Couldn't Outrun

I haven't been running since that night three years ago when I walked away from you. But this morning, I found myself lacing up my shoes anyway, something restless in my chest demanding motion. The weather app had promised scattered showers, but as I stepped out the door, the sky had other plans.

The lightning came first—a violent crack across the darkening sky that made me flinch, an involuntary response that reminded me of how your temper used to flare, sudden and breathtaking. I kept running anyway, my sneakers slapping against the wet pavement, past houses with lights already on against the coming storm. Past the coffee shop where we had our first date, where you'd laughed so hard you'd spilled latte on your favorite shirt. Past the apartment building where we lived together for two years, where I'd find you sitting on the balcony at 3 AM, unable to sleep, your hands still smelling of motor oil from your shift at the shop.

Then came the rain, sudden and unforgiving. There was a point, about three miles in, where I could have turned back. Instead, I kept going until I reached the old quarry on the edge of town, the water black and waiting. I stood there gasping, rain plastering my hair to my skull, thinking about how we'd gone swimming here once, in the middle of the night, both drunk and reckless and so young. You'd jumped first, surface diving into the darkness while I watched from the rocky shore, afraid. You'd resurfaced grinning, water streaming from your face, daring me to follow. I never did. I never learned to trust the things I couldn't see beneath the surface, in water or in people.

The lightning flashed again, closer this time, illuminating everything for a split second: the quarry's jagged edges, the trees thrashing in the wind, my own hands trembling slightly as I wiped rain from my eyes. I realized then that some storms you can't outrun. Some things you have to let break over you, soak you through, before you can finally walk away clean.

I walked back to my apartment slowly, no longer running. The storm passed as quickly as it had come, leaving everything washed and strange and new. Tomorrow, I told myself, tomorrow I'll start again. For tonight, I just let myself be wet, and alive, and finally, finally learning how to stay still.