What We Bear

The voicemail was three years old, but Maya's thumb still hovered over the delete button like it was yesterday. Her iPhone screen illuminated the dark hotel room, 3:47 AM bleeding into the silence. Thunder rattled the windowpane, and she counted—one, two—before lightning split the sky,瞬间 turning the lake outside into a mirror of white fire.

She'd come to this remote cabin to finally sort through David's things. Three years of widowing, and she'd done everything wrong. Kept his toothbrush. Wore his sweaters until they smelled only of her. Carried his phone number in her contacts like a habit she couldn't break.

The bear sat on the nightstand—one of those ridiculous jointed things from an artisan market, its fur matted where she'd pressed her face against it more times than she could count. David had won it for her at a county fair, trying to impress her with his aim. She'd told him she didn't care about prizes. She cared about how he looked at her like she was the only person in the crowded, noisy room.

Another voicemail. This one from two days before the accident. "Hey, just thinking about you. Meeting's running late but I'll pick up that wine you like. See you soon."

See you soon.

The words dissolved her, always had. She pressed play again, then again, until her iPhone battery warned at 15%. Lightning flashed closer now, and the hotel's power flickered and died. Darkness swallowed the room, leaving only her phone's ghostly glow and the bear's silhouette beside her.

She should delete them. Everyone said so. Her therapist. Her sister. The internet articles with titles like "Moving On: A Guide." They didn't understand that keeping them wasn't about holding on—it was about witness. About refusing to let the world forget that he had existed, that he had loved imperfectly but well, that his voice had once said "see you soon" and meant forever.

The bear's glass eyes caught the light. Stupid thing. Ugly thing. She'd almost thrown it out a dozen times. But she remembered David's face when he handed it to her, the way he'd shrugged like it was nothing special while hoping she'd love it.

We bear what we cannot change.

Maya pressed delete on the first voicemail. Then the next. Her hands shook. Lightning struck somewhere very close, thunder instantly following like the world had cracked open. She kept going, each message a small death, until she reached the last one.

"See you soon."

She deleted it.

Then she picked up the bear and placed it in the donation box with David's sweaters. Some things you keep. Some things you set down. The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind that clean, washed silence that comes after rain. Maya lay back against the pillows, iPhone screen finally dark, and listened to the sound of her own breathing.

See you soon, she thought. Not someday. Not never. Soon.