What We Carry

Elena stood in the corner of the rooftop garden, watching the partygoers in their expensive linen separates. She'd been excellent at this once—small talk, sparkling laughter, the effortless performance of belonging. Three years after David left, she'd somehow forgotten the choreography.

She reached for another canapé—something with spinach and goat cheese—and found herself face-to-face with Sarah. The friend who'd stopped calling six months ago, around the time Elena's drinking had become obvious enough to mention in that concerned, whispery voice.

"I heard about the promotion," Sarah said, not meeting her eyes. "At the firm. That's wonderful, Elena."

"It's just more money for more hours." Elena took a bite of the canapé. It tasted like ash. "Remember when we talked about running away to open that bakery?"

Sarah's laugh was thin. "We were twenty-three. We thought we could live on optimism and baseball games."

"You still go to the games?"

"With Mark. My fiancé." She held up her hand, and there it was—a diamond that would have taken Elena years to afford. "We're getting married in October."

Something in Elena's chest cracked open. She excused herself, escaping toward the edge of the roof where the city spread out like burning coals below.

Her phone buzzed. David. *Can we talk about the house?*

She deleted the message.

On the street below, a woman walked an old golden retriever, its hips swaying with arthritis. Elena watched them pause at a crosswalk, the dog leaning against the woman's leg with the absolute certainty of being loved.

She remembered swimming in the ocean with David, before everything. How she'd floated on her back, salt in her eyes, certain that some things were too true to ever end. The weightlessness of it—that particular kind of happiness that feels permanent until it doesn't.

Sarah appeared beside her, two drinks in hand. "Mark says you sold the place in the Heights."

"David wanted the equity. I wanted to stop sleeping in rooms where we promised each other forever."

"I'm sorry," Sarah said softly. "About everything. I should have—I didn't know how to—"

"It's okay." Elena accepted the drink. "We're all just doing the best we can."

They stood in silence, watching the dog and its woman disappear into the crowd. The weight between them was lighter now. Not gone—but lighter.

"Remember," Elena said, "how we used to say nothing could touch us?"

"We were wrong," Sarah answered. "But we were happy being wrong."

Elena took a drink and let herself remember it: the absolute certainty of being young, and the surprise of outlasting it.