Breathing Underwater

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic *thwack* of racquets—a sound of leisure that felt foreign to Elena's ears. She sat on the edge of the infinity pool, legs submerged in water that had grown too cool for the late afternoon, nursing a gin and tonic that had long since surrendered its ice.

Three weeks ago, David had packed his things. Not dramatically—no thrown glasses or screamed accusations. Just the quiet erosion of two decades, measured in his shirts disappearing one by one from the closet, until the hangers swung empty like wind chimes.

A golden retriever trotted toward her, tennis ball in mouth, tail a metronome of optimism. He dropped the ball at her feet, expectant.

"Not today, friend," she whispered, scratching behind his ears. His owner called from somewhere beyond the palm grove, and the dog bounded away, unfazed by rejection. Elena envied him—that particular canine ability to want something, ask for it, and simply move on when denied.

She looked down into the pool's mosaic bottom, where a single goldfish—escaped from some nearby decorative pond, perhaps—navigated the artificial depths with remarkable deliberation. It swam in endless circles, confined yet convinced of its journey's purpose.

"That's me," she said aloud to no one. The gin and tonic sweated in her palm, condensation slick against her skin.

Her phone buzzed. David. *Can we talk?*

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping, then darted down again. It didn't know it was in the wrong place. It didn't know the chlorine would eventually kill it. It just kept swimming, mouth opening and closing in that perpetual state of surprise, convinced that each circle forward was progress.

Elena watched the padel players laugh at some joke, heads thrown back, bodies loose with the ease of people who had never really lost anything. She set down her drink. She typed back: *Not yet.*

"Not yet," she repeated, slipping into the pool. The water closed over her head, and for a moment, everything was muffled and possible. Then she surfaced, gasping like the goldfish, alive in the wrong place, but moving forward nonetheless.