What We Leave Behind

The terminal stretched endlessly before me, each gate number mocking my progress. I was running—not the graceful sprint of my twenties, but the desperate lumbering of thirty-five-year-old knees that had weathered too many sedentary office hours. My hair, once thick and impractically long, was now a practical bob that still managed to plaster itself against my sweating forehead.

"Sarah," I whispered to myself, the name tasting like ash. She would have laughed at this spectacle. My best friend had always savored absurdity, especially the kind where dignity went to die spectacularly. But Sarah wasn't here. She hadn't been for three years, since the funeral where I'd stared at her coffin and wondered why her hair—those perfect red curls she'd obsessively maintained—looked so wrong in death.

The announcement repeated: "Final boarding call for Flight 247 to Denver."

I ran harder. My phone buzzed—Mark, probably wanting to know why I'd left without explanation. He'd never understood what Sarah's suicide had done to me, how it had hollowed out something essential. He'd said, "It's been two years, Elena. You need to move forward." As if grief were a linear progression, as if there were a destination where you arrived, shook hands with acceptance, and ordered appetizers.

I reached the gate just as the agent reached for the door.

"Wait," I gasped, bent double, lungs burning. "I'm here."

She looked at me with professional exhaustion. "ID?"

I fumbled for my wallet. Sarah would have made some quip about my hair—static-frizzed from running—making me look like I'd stuck my finger in a socket. She would have known exactly what to say to make me laugh even in this moment of panic.

"Go ahead," the agent said, returning my ID. "You made it."

The plane cabin was dim, faces illuminated by phone screens. I settled into seat 14A, pressed against the window. Below, the airport lights blurred into streaks of gold and white. I was running toward Denver, where I'd finally scatter Sarah's ashes at the overlook we'd drunkenly promised to visit together. Running toward closure, or perhaps just another kind of leaving behind.

I touched the small urn in my bag. Its surface was cool, impossibly smooth.

"Alright, Sarah," I whispered as the engines roared to life. "Let's go."

My hair fell across my face as we lifted into darkness, carrying the weight of something I should have said years ago: I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.