Chlorine and Regret

The indoor pool smelled like childhood summers and disappointment. Maya stood at the edge, clutching her **hat**—a wide-brimmed thing she'd bought to shield herself from the sun, as if that could protect her from anything anymore.

"You coming in?" Elena called from the shallow end. They hadn't been real **friend**s since the incident at last year's holiday party, but Elena acted like nothing had changed. Some people were capable of that casual erasure. Maya was not one of them.

The **water** rippled violently as Elena performed an aggressive lap breaststroke. Maya watched her colleagues through the distorted lens, everyone pretending this team-building exercise wasn't awkward. She'd almost called in sick, but the guilt was its own kind of workplace performance art.

"You're overthinking," Elena said, suddenly beside her, dripping wet. "Have you been taking your **vitamin** D supplements? You look pale."

Maya laughed, a sharp sound. "Is that what we're calling it now? Vitamin D deficiency? I thought we agreed to never discuss December 14th."

Elena's face softened. "Maya. Nobody remembers except you."

"I kissed the married CFO," Maya said. "In front of everyone."

"He's divorced now. And remarried. To someone else." Elena treaded **water**, examining her manicured toes. "You're not special. You're just the only one still punishing yourself for a **mistake**."

Maya sat at the pool's edge, feet dangling in the cool water. "It felt like something."

"It was five minutes of bad judgment in a decade of good work." Elena splashed her. "Get in. The water's fine, and I'm not doing the trust fall exercise alone."

The **pool** lapped against Maya's ankles. She realized she'd been standing at the edge of her own life for months, watching others swim while she held onto an umbrella that wouldn't open. Sometimes you had to dive in to remember you knew how to float.

She adjusted her **hat**, set it on the deck, and slipped into the water.