Chlorine and Regret

The backyard swimming pool sat stagnant, collecting leaves like unspoken apologies. Sarah stood at the edge, remembering how Michael used to dive in every morning at dawn, slicing through the water with the precision of a man who'd never made a mistake in his life.

That was before the baseball incident. Not a game—God, no—but the way he'd thrown her grandmother's porcelain vase against the wall during their final argument, the ceramic shattering like something fragile and precious. Something like them.

She climbed into the pool fully clothed, the water shockingly cold against her skin. Swimming laps had always been his ritual, not hers. But she needed to feel something beyond the hollow ache in her chest. The chlorine burned her eyes, and she let it.

Afterward, she sat on the concrete deck, peeling an orange she'd plucked from the bowl inside. The citrus scent cut through the chemical smell of the pool. She'd started taking vitamin D supplements after he left—the doctor said her levels were dangerously low, but she knew it was just the gray weight of depression settling into her bones.

Her phone buzzed. Michael. Again.

"I left something," his voicemail would say. He always did. A sweater. A book. Pieces of her.

Sarah squeezed the orange until juice ran down her wrist, sticky and bright. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and gold. She thought about how she'd spent three years watching him live his life while she just... existed beside him. Like furniture. Like the pool he'd demanded they install though she couldn't swim.

She stood up, dripping water and orange juice onto the concrete. Tomorrow she'd drain the pool. Tomorrow she'd stop answering his calls. Tonight, she'd finish her orange and let the evening swallow her whole, knowing that eventually, she'd learn to swim in whatever came next.