What We Keep Running From

The spinach had gone slimy in the vegetable drawer, much like our marriage had gone soft and unrecognizable over three years. I stood staring at the plastic container, avoiding the conversation that had been waiting in the living room for weeks.

You're always running, Elena had said last night. Not literally—though I'd started jogging at dawn just to have somewhere to be—but emotionally. I ran from hard talks, from disappointment, from the terrifying possibility that we'd become strangers who shared a bed.

She was right. I was a coward.

I threw the spinach into the trash and thought about David. Sharp-tongued, clever David, who'd made me laugh at Julia's Christmas party with stories about his disastrous dating life. A fox in designer glasses, my mother would've called him. Charming, dangerous, impossible to pin down. We'd exchanged numbers. We'd met for coffee twice, claiming it was for work networking. We hadn't crossed any lines, but the intention shimmered between us like heat waves.

Then there was Elena. Independent as a cat, she'd never needed anyone the way I needed her. That was the problem, maybe. I'd fallen in love with her self-sufficiency, then resented it when I wanted to feel essential. Now she slept with her back to me, and I lay awake constructing scenarios where I packed a bag, where I said the words that would end this.

But I moved through my days like a zombie—going through the motions of my job, my marriage, my life. Numb, going through the motions. The autopilot of decision paralysis.

I closed the refrigerator door. David had texted this morning: *Coffee?* The invitation hung in the air, a choice I'd been avoiding making.

I picked up my phone and deleted the message. Then I walked into the living room where Elena sat reading, her feet curled beneath her, and sat beside her.

"I'm sorry," I said. "For running."

She lowered her book. Those cat-green eyes studied me, searching for something true. "Are you staying?"

"Yes," I said, and for the first time in months, I meant it.

She set the book aside and leaned into me, and I realized I'd been running toward the wrong thing all along.