Breathing Underwater

I adjusted the orange strap of my swimsuit for the tenth time, feeling like a traffic cone at a funeral. Everyone else looked effortless—flowing, confident, like they'd been born with chlorinated water in their veins. Me? I looked like I was about to give a presentation on my greatest fears instead of jumping into a pool.

"You coming in or what?" Marcus called from the deep end, splashing water that caught the light like liquid diamonds. He wore his faded baseball cap backward, the same one he'd worn every day since seventh grade, and suddenly I was fifteen again, watching him from across the cafeteria, wondering why the universe made some people glow while others just... existed.

My iPhone buzzed in my pocket—probably another notification I'd obsessively check to avoid actual human interaction. But something shifted in me, maybe the way the late afternoon light turned everything golden, maybe the way Marcus was still watching me, waiting.

I dropped my phone on the patio chair. I climbed onto the diving board, knees shaking like I was defying gravity itself. The pool stretched below me—an endless blue mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

"CANNONBALL!" someone screamed, and I didn't plan it, didn't think, just launched myself into the air. For one perfect moment, I was flying. Then I hit the water, and the world went quiet, muffled, peaceful. I broke the surface gasping, water streaming from my hair, Marcus laughing, someone high-fiving me, and I realized I'd been holding my breath for years.

That evening, I ate an orange by the pool fence, watching the sky turn colors that didn't have names. My phone stayed forgotten beside me. For the first time, I wasn't watching life through a screen or worrying about how I looked doing it. I was just there—wet, messy, alive—and somehow, that was enough.