What the Palm Couldn't Say

The palm in her hand was warm, almost feverish. The man across the table watched with desperate eyes as she traced the life line, heart line, fate line—all the invisible maps someone had told him would predict his future.

"The dog is going to be fine," she said, surprising herself. She hadn't meant to say that at all. But when she looked up, the man was crying.

She'd been doing readings since the layoffs, since Elena left, since she'd needed something to believe in.

The client left, leaving more than he should.

She counted the cash, folded it into her wallet.

Her iPhone buzzed—a reminder. Therapy at four.

At home, the dog greeted her with his full-body wag, the way he always did, unconditional and steady. She'd inherited Buster from Elena, one of the few things they hadn't fought over.

She sat on the floor with him, buried her face in his fur.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she told him, and his response was a warm, steady weight against her side, her anchor.

She washed her hands in the bathroom, studying her own palm in the mirror.

Maybe she should have become the person who could predict outcomes. Maybe then she wouldn't be wondering which choice led here, to this apartment with its half-unpacked boxes, this solitary morning coffee, this persistent, hollowed-out feeling she couldn't name.

The thing was, she didn't know which choices mattered.

That night, she scrolled through old photos on her iPhone, stopped at one of her and Elena at the beach, palm trees swaying behind them, both of them believing in forever.

She deleted it.

Then she downloaded it again.

Buster whined at her feet, and she realized she was crying.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."