The Weight of Witness

The bear of it had settled in Maya's chest three weeks ago—that terrible, heavy knowledge she couldn't un-know. She'd been running from it ever since, running in the metaphorical sense, though the pavement beneath her sneakers tonight made it feel literal. 2:17 AM. The city asleep except for her and the streetlights.

Sarah had been her friend for eleven years. Through divorces and promotions and that one terrible Christmas. So when Sarah's husband had squeezed Maya's hand at the party and whispered you're the only one who understands, Maya had done what any good friend would do. She'd pulled away. She'd told Sarah the next day.

But Sarah hadn't believed her. Or worse—she had, and chosen to bear it anyway.

Maya stopped running, chest heaving, bent over near the entrance to the park where they'd all met for drinks last Friday. Where Sarah had laughed too loudly and drank too much and dragged her fingernails down Maya's arm when nobody was looking. Leave him, she'd said. Come stay with us. Us, she'd said.

Her phone buzzed. Sarah again.

The bear in Maya's chest shifted, heavier now. Some friendships weren't worth the weight of carrying them. Some people didn't want saving—they wanted company in their suffering, or witnesses to their martyrdom.

She blocked the number and started running again.