Blue Light on Water

The pool water shimmered with that artificial turquoise glow that only exists in expensive suburbs. Elena sat on the edge, legs dangling in the warm water, her iPhone casting a blue ghost-light across her face as she refreshed his social media profile for the third time that hour. The screen showed him at a baseball game, smiling beside someone younger—blonde, beaming, holding a beer like she'd just invented joy.

They'd had season tickets once. That was the deal they'd made in their thirties: baseball every Sunday, faithful as church. Now the baseball diamond existed only in his filtered photos, populated by strangers wearing caps she didn't recognize.

Her phone buzzed. Not him. Never him. Just her boss checking if she'd reviewed those contracts before Monday's meeting. The corporate world never paused for your heart to finish breaking.

Elena tossed the iPhone onto the lounge chair. It bounced once, twice, then settled screen-down in the synthetic grass. She slid into the pool, letting the water close over her head. For twelve suspended seconds, there was only silence and the peculiar weightlessness that came from surrender.

When she surfaced, gasping, the suburban night felt suddenly vast. In the distance, she could hear baseball commentary drifting from a neighbor's television—crowd roaring, announcer's voice crackling with excitement. That same game he was attending. That same moment he was living.

She climbed out, water streaming from her hair like she'd been reborn from something necessary. The iPhone waited where she'd left it, a small rectangular portal to everyone else's happiness. She picked it up, opened his photo one last time, and then—finally—blocked him.

The screen went dark. In the reflection, she saw herself: wet, shivering, and unmistakably alive.