The sky is still dark but begins to lighten when I lace up my running shoes.
The porch light flickers once as I step into the morning. No birds yet, just the hush of sleeping houses and the hum of faraway tires. There’s always a moment right before dawn that feels like a held breath. You almost believe the world might decide not to start again.
I run to outrun her.
Each footfall is a metronome: don't think, don't think, don't think. The cold air carves itself through my lungs. My legs ache by the third block. I don’t stop. My body is a system of moving parts, none of which belong to me this morning. I am a ghost inside it, a passenger. That suits me just fine.
I round a corner and catch my reflection in a store window. For a split second, I think it’s someone else. The woman in the glass looks tired. Hair knotted back in a hasty blonde tail, dark smudges under her eyes. Her mouth is tight, expressionless. She looks like someone trying very hard to be someone else.
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