She was sitting on a park bench, the sun a perfect gold, a cool breeze smelling of cut grass and distant rain. In her hands was a coffee. Next to her, a daisy. And in front of her, for the first time in four years, everything was fine.
Elara should have felt light. Instead, she felt the ground give way.
It felt like standing on a cliff edge in a dream where you could fly. The thrill was the terror.
Her boss had finally approved her project. Her mother’s tests had come back clear. Her rent was paid. The boy she’d been nervously texting had just sent, “Tonight? My place. I’ll cook.”
She took a slow, shaking breath. Then another.
The flamenco softened into a waltz. The cliff edge became solid ground. And the joy, once so sharp it hurt, settled into a warm, humming glow in her stomach.
Her phone buzzed. “Seven okay? I’m making that pasta you like.”
Her breath hitched. She gripped the bench slats. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered to the daisy. “I’m having a happy heart panic.”
Elara closed her eyes. She did the only thing she knew how to do when her body betrayed her. She leaned into it.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Elara’s heart was trying to escape through her ribs.
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