The Weight of Waiting

The iphone buzzed against the nightstand — 3:14 AM, the fourth time tonight. Elena stared at the screen through gritty eyes, David's name glowing like an accusation. She'd changed her relationship status yesterday, but Facebook hadn't cared enough to notify anyone important. Just the algorithms knew.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, and for a second, the apartment was bright as noon. Her sister's cat, a judgmental calico named Bear (Sarah's joke, somehow funnier after the divorce), lifted his head from the foot of the bed, then returned to washing his paw with deliberate indifference.

Elena's fingers hovered over David's last message: "Can we talk?" Three words that had undone her before. She thought of her boss at the firm, Fox — a woman who'd survived three layoffs and two mergers by trusting no one. "Don't let them see you bleed," Fox had said after Elena showed up to work with red-rimmed eyes last week. "Everyone acts like they care until the budget cuts come."

The cat padded across the comforter and settled on her chest, twelve pounds of warm, purning judgment. Bear kneaded her collarbone with sharp precision, his motor loud in the storm-quiet room. She'd never wanted children — they'd fought about that, in the gentle way that meant they were both wrong — but somehow she'd ended up the primary caretaker for Sarah's menagerie anyway.

Her iphone illuminated another notification. Not David. A news alert: massive data breach, millions exposed. She thought about the photos she'd sent him last Christmas, the ones he'd promised to delete. Lightning flashed again, and she watched Bear's eyes reflect white, pupils blown wide before narrowing to slits.

"We're all just waiting to be exposed, aren't we?" she whispered to the empty room. The cat yawned, displaying sharp little teeth.

At 4:47, when her phone finally stayed silent, Elena realized she'd stopped breathing. Outside, the storm broke. Rain drummed against the windows like fingers demanding entry, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — someone else's emergency, someone else's 4 AM crisis.

Bear tucked his head beneath her chin, and for the first time in months, Elena slept.