Blue Tiles and Broken Glass

The pool had gone green with neglect. Maya stood at its edge, clutching her friend's iPhone—a relic found among Sarah's belongings after the funeral. Six months dead, and still Sarah's ghost lived in this device, preserved in amber-lit screenshots and half-typed texts.

Maya had been the one to find Sarah floating face-down among the blue tiles last September. They'd had a fight that afternoon. Something stupid—Maya couldn't even remember what now. Just another argument in twenty years of arguments, their friendship a push-pull of love and resentment.

Now the dog, Buster, Sarah's ancient golden retriever, pressed his warm weight against Maya's leg. He looked at the pool, then at her, let out a soft whine. Sarah had always said Buster understood everything.

Maya pressed the home button. The phone sputtered to life, battery miraculously holding. She opened the messages—her thread with Sarah, the last one still dominated by their final fight, jagged with things they couldn't take back.

But there was a draft, unsent, dated the night Sarah died:

"I'm sorry. I never say it enough. You're the sister I chose. Meet me at the pool tomorrow? I'll bring wine."

Maya's breath hitched. She sank to the concrete, Buster curling around her. The dog's gray muzzle found her palm. She'd never come to the pool that next morning—too proud, too stubborn, too convinced she was right.

The screen dimmed. Maya watched her reflection swim over Sarah's last words.

"I know, buddy," she whispered to Buster, tears finally coming. "I know."

The pool water rippled in the wind, catching light like broken glass. Some things, once submerged, could never be recovered whole.