Page 16 of Anatomy of Us

I start easy. Five minutes to warm up. Then I push to the pace that makes me feel competent. Hard enough that my breathing should force my brain to shut up.

It doesn't work.

Because my brain can do two things at once: run and tear me apart.

I shouldn't have kissed her.

The sentence follows me like a shadow.

“You broke my heart the first time.”

Zoe says it like a fact. Too obvious to argue with. Devastating. Not even as an accusation. And that makes it worse. It's a quieter kind of torture. The kind that doesn't bruise your skin but changes something inside you.

I chose Munich knowing exactly what I was leaving behind. I sold myself the idea it was the best option: the prestige of the sports medicine program, the name Klaus Hermann spoken with respect anywhere people talk aboutsoccer rehab. Klaus looked at me once and told me he was proud of me.

And I clung to that sentence like it was oxygen.

Months later, Zoe married Nate.

For years I used that as my perfect alibi. “See? It was obvious. Nate wasn't just a friend. There was something she didn't tell me, and that quick wedding proves it. I left and cleared the path. It wasn't that deep. I did her a favor.” I repeated it like a mantra, over and over.

Now I think I lied to myself so reality would hurt less.

Zoe married Nate because I left her heart in pieces. Because she needed something to hold onto, and Nate showed up at the right moment with pretty words… fake words. Because after what I did to her, anything felt better.

I grind up Pine Street and turn toward Volunteer Park. The park sits empty and gray. My shoes slap wet pavement in a rhythm that should calm me down. The air smells like soaked dirt, and it reminds me that some things grow back even after you step on them.

But that's the sad pattern of my life.

When things got hard, when a relationship started to feel too serious, I picked the emergency exit. I protected my heart. I always had a stack of excuses that sounded believable enough to run.

The question comes back. It refuses to die.

“Has anything changed?”

And my answer stays the same.

I don't know.

I finish five miles and get home drenched. I shower. Hot water pounds my neck and back, but I don't feel better. I smack the tile with my open palm. I want to cry from anger, because something this simple works for everyone except me.

I step out and walk naked down the hall. Water still slides down my legs, and my feet leave dark prints on the wood floor. My phone buzzes on the counter. I check the time before I pick it up.

7:30 a.m.

Nobody texts at that hour on a Sunday unless something goes wrong. I brace for a message from the club's medical team.

It's Jordan Hayes, our sports psychologist.

“I saw you go for a run at 6:30 a.m. Nobody runs in the rain on a Sunday at that hour unless she's running from something. I'll be at the club café at 9 if you want to talk. Or you can ignore this if you'd rather suffer alone. No pressure. Your call.”

I stare at the screen.

She has this weird talent for telling you the truth to your face and somehow making you want to thank her and hug her afterward.

I type back without thinking too much, because if I think, I won't go, and if I stay home, I'll spiral into memories that shred me.

Me: 9 at the club café. Thanks.