The Weight of Departure

The security line snaked through the terminal like a slow-moving river of anxiety. Elena clutched the **orange** she'd swiped from the hotel breakfast buffet, its dimpled skin grounding her when nothing else could. Her flight to Chicago was boarding in twelve minutes.

She wasn't running away. She told herself this repeatedly, like a prayer. But the truth lived in the tightness of her chest, in the way she'd spent three days in Miami avoiding Mark's calls.

They'd met at Sarah's wedding six months ago. He'd caught her **running** along the beach at sunrise—her pathetic attempt to outrun the grief of her mother's death. He'd joined her, silent at first, then talking about everything and nothing. By the time they'd returned to the resort, she'd told him things she'd never spoken aloud. He'd become her **friend**, then something more, then everything.

Now Sarah was dead too. Car accident. And Mark—he'd been driving.

The airport terminal was filled with **palm** trees painted on walls, a grotesque imitation of paradise. Elena thought about the last time she'd seen Mark, standing beneath real palm trees at Sarah's funeral, his knuckles white around his phone. He'd reached for her, eyes raw and desperate, and she'd pulled away.

"Boarding group 4," the announcement crackled.

Elena looked at her phone again. Three missed calls, two texts: *I need you. Please.*

She'd fallen in love with a man who'd accidentally killed her best friend. The logic of it was cruel enough to make her laugh, except her throat was too tight for sound. Every time she looked at him, she saw Sarah's vacant smile in the casket. Every time he touched her, she felt the ghost of her friend between them.

The orange in her hand felt suddenly impossibly heavy, a stone she couldn't carry anymore.

She stepped out of the security line and walked toward the gate counter.

"I need to change my ticket," she said, and when the agent looked up, Elena placed the orange on the counter like an offering. "One way back to Miami."