Breathing Underwater

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter next to a bag of spinach that was already turning slimy at the edges. Maya stared at both, realizing she'd forgotten to eat anything green since David left three weeks ago.

Her friend Lena had texted twice that morning. *Come swimming with us. The water will help.* But Maya hadn't been swimming since the incident at the company retreat last spring—the one everyone still whispered about in the breakroom. She'd been drunk, then. She'd ruined everything.

Now she found herself running at 5 AM, pounding the pavement before the city woke up, before she had to face her empty apartment and the promotional offer she'd received yesterday—the same promotion David had been campaigning for. The irony tasted like bile.

An orange rolled out of her gym bag as she fumbled for her keys. She watched it bounce down the hallway, coming to rest against a pair of David's abandoned shoes. Something about that small, bright sphere against the worn leather broke her open. She sank to the floor and finally cried—not for the marriage, but for the years she'd spent swallowing herself whole.

Lena found her there an hour later. "You don't have to go swimming," she said, sitting beside Maya. "But you do have to stop running from yourself."

Maya looked at her friend—really looked at her—for the first time in months. "I don't know who I am anymore," she whispered.

"Then let's find out," Lena said. "Start with breakfast. I saw that spinach. We're making omelets."

The orange still sat in the hallway. Maya picked it up, peeled it slowly. The scent of citrus filled the stagnant air. For the first time in three weeks, she felt something like hope.