“Creeeackkkkk” I turn quickly behind me, startled and confused. I look over the stretch of desert behind us and laugh it off. It turned out to be a measly twig I had stepped on. I turn to Grace to gauge her reaction. She gives me nothing more than an awkward smile and turns her head back toward the trail we were walking on. We had ventured on this trail easily hundreds of times, but as beautiful and breathtaking as it was, it couldn’t eclipse the ugliness of our relationship. If the trail couldn’t, I had no shot at ignoring it, no matter how hard I tried to pretend I didn’t see the Tinder notifications on her phone, or how I pretended I hadn’t overheard her laughing and sounding joyful after her weekend out with “a friend.”  

 

After what feels like an eternity of awkward silence and discomfort, about twenty minutes or so, we make it to the summit of the trail. I sit down on an elevated rock. Grace sits down beside me, distantly of course. The summit overlooks all of Central Phoenix; it’s a breathtaking view. From up here, a city of 1.6 million looks like a bunch of scattered yellow lights and blocky skyscrapers. In hindsight, it makes all the problems in the city and beyond seem small. 

 

From an individual perspective, I had gotten us into some serious shit. I had recently been let go from my job as a psychologist in Arcadia. Apparently, it wasn’t a good look to comfort your clients while drunk. Life was hard, extremely hard, and no amount of college or parental pep talks could prepare you for that. Alcohol distracted me, and at first glance that felt good enough for me, until it became too good for me. 

 

The wind picks up a bit soft, dry, and carrying that faint electric hum that always came before a storm in the desert. Grace brushes her hair back and sighs. Not a word passes between us. I want to say something, anything, but the words jam in my throat like gravel. Then she says it first. “You’re drinking again, aren’t you?” No anger is in her voice, just tired recognition. I don’t answer right away. I pick up a small rock and toss it down the cliffside. It bounces twice, then disappears. She goes on, quieter. “You think I don’t notice, but you’re not as subtle as you think. You reek of it. You slur sometimes when you talk. You don’t look at me the same anymore.” I fight off the urge to tell her that she wasn’t exactly a saint either, that I had seen her sneak out, that I had seen the Tinder messages from “Kyle” or “Ethan” or whatever the fuck his name was. But those words felt cheap, like trying to fight fire with ash. “I’m trying.” I finally said, not meeting her eyes. “I really am.” She gave a half-smile, half-frown expression I have seen a thousand times before. “That’s what you always say.” We sat there another few minutes, the sky turning orange and purple, the city fading into a glittering sea of streetlights. I thought about the first time we hiked this trail years ago, when things still felt alive, when I wasn’t drinking to forget, and she wasn’t looking for exits. 

 

Then comes the second creak. Not from a twig this time but from somewhere below the ridge. Grace looked over her shoulder. “Did you hear that?” I nodded. My pulse jumps. This time, I don’t laugh it off. The second creak echoes, breaking the silence but not the tension. Grace turns her head toward the noise, then back toward the lights below. “It’s just the wind,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound convincing even to me. She doesn’t answer. She just sits there, hands folded in her lap, watching the skyline flicker. Finally, she says, “You know, this used to be my favorite spot.” “Yeah,” I say. “Mine too.” We both laugh a little, not because it was funny, but because it was easier than crying. Grace leans forward, focusing on the gravel underneath her, resting her elbows on her knees. “I kept hoping we could find our way back to something. I don’t even know what anymore. Maybe it’s just habit. Or fear.” I stare down at my shoes, dirt crusted on the edges. “It’s not just you,” I say. “I’ve been hoping for the same thing. But I keep messing it up.” “You don’t have to keep saying that.” Her tone softens. “You’ve been saying that for years. You keep apologizing for things you never fix.” 

 

That one lands in my gut. I can’t combat that; I just feel a sinking pit of shame in my stomach. The city looks peaceful from up here, all order and light, but I know it's not. I know somewhere down there, people are screaming, crashing, breaking, hiding just like us. “I saw your phone,” I say finally. “The messages. The Tinder stuff.” She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even look surprised. She just nods. “I figured you did.” “And?” “And what?” she says quietly. “You were already gone. You’ve been gone for a long time. I just stopped pretending.” The words hurt because they are true. I nod, rubbing my palms together. “Yeah. I guess we both did.” The wind picks up again, pushing a small cloud of dust past us. For a while, neither of us spoke. The sun dips lower, painting the rocks gold. Grace stands first. “We should head down before it gets dark.” I want to stop her, to say something that would change things, but there is nothing left to say. Some endings don’t explode. They just fade quietly until you realize you’ve already stepped past them. We walk back down the trail without another word. The city lights grow brighter as the sky goes black. Every few minutes, I hear her footsteps behind me, steady, distant, fading. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t try to pretend we will find our way back. 

 

By the time I get home, the house feels heavier than usual. The air is thick and stale, the kind of silence that hums in your ears. I toss the keys on the counter and stare at the half empty bottle on the table. For a long minute, I just stand, watching the light from the kitchen bulb bend through the glass. Then I pick it up, not to drink-not yet at least-but to look at it, to really look. Grace’s toothbrush is still by the sink. Her sweatshirt is still draped over the chair. Everything looks the same, except it isn’t. It hit me that endings don’t announce themselves. They just happen quietly, during a hike, in a sentence, in a silence too long to fill. I set the bottle down and open the window. The air that comes in smells like dust and sage, like the trail. For the first time in months, it doesn’t make me want to run. It just remindsream still there wrecked, sure, but breathing.