As soon as I got home, I changed into my running gear. I needed fresh air, needed to clear my mind, needed to put distance between myself and the wreckage of what I'd thought was love. I didn't care that it was dark outside—I just wanted to run.
Westfield Park wasn't far from the apartment. I crossed the road and started picking up pace, my feet pounding against the pavement in a rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat. The cold wind whipping through my hair made my problems feel momentarily lighter, the sharp bite against my face a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. But as soon as I sank onto a park bench to catch my breath, the weight came crashing back. My chest felt hollow, my skin too thin, every sound in the night magnified.
How had I been so stupid?
The memories flood
