Chlorine and Regret

The **running** had started six months after the divorce — first around the neighborhood, then through the park, then anywhere that would exhaust her body before her mind could catch up. Elena hadlogged enough miles to circle the earth twice, or at least it felt that way. But tonight, at 2 AM, she found herself standing at the edge of her apartment complex's **pool**, fully clothed, staring at the still black water that reflected nothing but her own ghost.

She'd forgotten to take her **vitamin** D supplements again — the ones prescribed after her doctor's appointment, the one where they discussed bone density and aging and the creeping realization that her body was no longer an afterthought. Thirty-eight, and suddenly everything was about maintenance. The pills sat on her nightstand next to her phone and his old watch, which she still couldn't bring herself to remove.

The **water** lapped gently against the pool tiles, and she remembered learning to swim with her father in a lake somewhere in Michigan. He'd held her up, strong hands beneath her small back, and promised he'd never let go. Then he did — first emotionally, then physically. Men left. That's what they did. Her husband had packed his things in boxes and left his promises scattered across the carpet like confetti after a party no one wanted to attend.

Elena stepped out of her sneakers. The concrete was cold beneath her bare feet. She wasn't going to swim; she just needed to be closer to something that could hold her, even if was just chlorined water in a place where teenagers made bad decisions and old people did laps at dawn.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably him again. The texts had started last week — random check-ins, memories carefully curated to seem casual. "Saw that movie we liked." "Found your old scarf." Testing the waters, seeing if she was still drowning, seeing if she'd reached the surface yet.

She sat at the edge, legs dangling in. The **water** was warmer than she expected, like bathwater someone had forgotten. Like the bath she'd taken the night she realized her marriage was over, the night she'd cried until her skin was waterlogged and prune-wrinkled, submerged in her own grief.

The **running** had been running away. The **vitamin** pills were trying to hold herself together. The **pool** was just water that reflected what she couldn't face.

Elena pulled her legs out, wet and dripping, and put her shoes back on. She wasn't ready to swim yet. But she wasn't running anymore either. She stood up, water dripping from her calves onto the concrete, and walked back to her apartment, leaving small wet footprints that would evaporate by morning.