What the Palm Lines Forgot
Maya's palm was sweaty against the cold marble of the cemetery bench. She'd been running from this moment for three years — ever since the night Elena died in that car Maya was supposed to be driving. But here she was, finally visiting her best friend's grave, clutching a crumpled fortune teller's prediction she'd found in Elena's jacket after the funeral.
"You will outlive the person who knows you best," the slip of paper read. Elena had gotten her palm read at that cheesy boardwalk arcade the summer before she died. She'd laughed it off, but she'd tucked the prediction into her pocket anyway.
Maya remembered how Elena had grabbed her hand that day, tracing the lines on Maya's palm with theatrical seriousness. "See this life line? It's longer than mine. Means you're stuck with me forever, babe."
But forever had turned out to be six months.
The guilt had been running through Maya's veins like poison since the accident. She'd cancelled at the last minute that night, claiming a headache. Elena had driven alone, hit black ice, spun into oncoming traffic. If Maya had gone... if she'd been the one driving...
A pair of elderly women walked past, their conversation drifting over. "Your palm lines don't predict your life, honey. They just show where you've been gripping too tight."
Maya looked at her own palm, the creases deep and permanent. She realized then that she'd been holding onto guilt like a lifeline, because letting go meant admitting Elena was truly gone. That the running wasn't from the grave, but from the emptiness her friend had left behind.
She pressed her palm flat against the cold stone, feeling something shift inside her — not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the beginning of acceptance. Elena would have hated seeing her like this, stagnant and consumed by what-ifs.
"You always said I overthink everything," Maya whispered, placing the fortune on the grass. "This is me finally listening."
She stood up, her legs steady for the first time in years. She wasn't running anymore.