Page 27 of After Everything
Mile three. The hardest mile, always. The one where your body wants to quit, where every muscle screams that you've done enough, that you can walk the rest.
I pushed through it.
My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm. Left, right, left, right… like a drumbeat I'd lost somewhere along the way and had finally found again. The morning air was sharp and clean, early spring fighting its way through the last dregs of winter. Sunrise was just starting to break over the city, painting everything in shades of pink and gold.
I'd forgotten what this felt like. Not just running, but this… being alone with my thoughts without drowning in them. My mind was clear. Focused. Present.
Well, mostly present. There was still that envelope sitting on my kitchen counter. The one I'd been staring at for ten minutes this morning before I'd forced myself to leave it unopened and go for a run instead.
University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing. I'd know the logo anywhere by now. I'd been checking my mailbox obsessively for three weeks.
But when it finally came yesterday, I'd been too terrified to open it. What if it was a rejection? What if I'd applied too late, or my application wasn't strong enough, or they could somehow see that I'd given up on myself for eight years and decided I wasn't worth the risk?
So I'd left it. Told myself I'd open it this morning. After my run. When I felt strong.
No spiraling about David. No replaying conversations or analyzing what I could have done differently. No wondering ifSarah was prettier or smarter or better in bed.
Just breath. Movement. The burn in my quads and the pump of my heart. And the knowledge that an envelope was waiting for me that could change everything.
I rounded the corner past the coffee shop that was just opening, the owner setting out chairs on the sidewalk. He waved. I waved back. We'd developed this routine over the past month: me running by at 6:30 AM, him setting up shop, a small acknowledgement between strangers that we were both showing up, doing the work.
Mile four.
I'd started running again two months ago. Just a mile at first, then two. My body had been so out of shape it was almost embarrassing. I'd been a runner in college, used to do half marathons like they were nothing, but eight years of marriage and a handful of weeks of barely functioning had taken their toll.
The first week, I'd barely made it around the block without wanting to throw up.
But I kept going. Every other day. Thenevery day. Building back the strength I'd let atrophy.
And somewhere along the way, I'd stopped running to forget and started running because it felt good. Because I liked the way my body worked, the way it got stronger each week, the way I could see progress in something tangible and measurable.
Mile five.
I turned onto my street—my street, not our street—and let myself sprint the last quarter mile. My heart was hammering, sweat soaking through my shirt, and I felt powerful. Alive. Like my body belonged to me again, like I could do anything.
I slowed to a walk for the cool-down, hands on my hips, breathing hard but steady. A couple walked past with their dog. A guy was getting into his car for work. Normal people doing normal things on a normal Saturday morning.
And I was one of them. Just another person living their life. Not the woman whose husband cheated. Not the divorce. Not broken.
Just Emma. Running. Breathing. Existing.
I looked up at my building. Third floor, corner unit. The window boxes I'd installed last month were starting to bloom: tulips, bright red against the brick.
My building. My window boxes. My tulips.
I headed inside.
The acceptance letter was sitting on my kitchen counter where I'd left it this morning, too afraid to open it before my run in case it was bad news.
I picked up the envelope. University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing. Nurse Practitioner Program.
My hands were still shaking from the run. Or maybe from nerves. Hard to tell.
I'd applied three months ago. Told myself I was just exploring options, just seeing what was out there, no pressure. But I'd wanted this. Needed it. Not medical school, no… that dream felt like it belonged to a different person, a younger Emma who didn't know what she wanted yet. But this? This was mine.
I tore open the envelope.
Dear Ms. Peterson,
