What We Carry

The sauté pan hissed as she dropped in the spinach, watching it collapse from vibrant to limp within seconds. Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the empty apartment where Marcus's coffee mug still sat on the counter—a ghost he'd left behind three weeks ago.

She'd told herself she was fine. She was fine. She chopped the orange with surgical precision, zest spraying onto her wrists like perfume he'd bought her two years ago. A scent that now smelled like someone else's life.

The water boiling over snapped her back to the present. She turned down the flame, staring at the pot's surface. During their last fight, he'd said she carried everything—their shared failures, his mother's judgment, the weight of expectations neither of them had chosen—like a fucking grizzly bear hibernating through winter. The analogy had made her laugh then, bitter and sharp.

Now, standing alone in their kitchen, she understood what he meant. She was still carrying it. The spinach turned to mush in the pan. The orange segments lay neglected on the cutting board. The storm outside intensified, rain hammering against windows that suddenly seemed too large for one person.

She thought about the cabin in Montana where they'd seen the actual bear—a mother with cubs, lumbering across the trail while Marcus gripped her hand so hard her fingers went numb. They'd been terrified and exhilarated, witnesses to something ancient and indifferent. They'd promised each other then that they'd always choose wonder over safety.

The irony tasted like burnt spinach. She scraped the pan into the sink, watching the water carry away their dinner. Lightning flashed again, and for a split second, she saw everything clearly: she wasn't waiting for him to come back. She was waiting for permission to leave.

She picked up her phone. Her hands didn't shake at all as she booked a flight to Montana—solo. The bear would still be there. The lightning would still crack open the sky. And somewhere in all that wild indifference, she'd finally remember who she was before she became someone's witness.