Chlorine and Regret

The pool glowed that artificial blue that only exists in places trying too hard to be happy. Maya sat on the deck, nursing her third vodka and orange, watching the party swirl around her like water down a drain. She'd stopped swimming years ago—too much exposure, too many eyes.

"You're not drinking enough to forget,"

Ethan slid onto the lounge chair beside her, reeking of chlorine and expensive cologne. His hand found her knee, possessive and practiced. Mayahad stopped flinching months ago.

"I'm not trying to forget."

"Then why the vitamin routine? You take more supplements than my mother."

Maya swallowed the truth along with her drink. The vitamins were her tether to control, the one thing in her life she could quantify and organize. Each morning, she lined them up like soldiers: D for bones, B for nerves, iron for blood she refused to spill anymore.

"Health-conscious. You should try it."

He laughed, the sound cutting through the humid air. Someone's cat—a sleek, indifferent calico—padded across the pool deck, pausing to inspect Maya's abandoned sandals. The cat seemed to understand something Ethan never would: sometimes the most powerful move is simply walking away.

"My sister has goldfish now," Ethan said, his words blurring at the edges. "They keep dying. She keeps buying more."

Maya watched the cat settle beneath a nearby table, tail curled around its paws. Goldfish had what? Three seconds of memory? She envied them. Every moment fresh, every encounter new. No accumulation of small disappointments, no inventory of things left unsaid.

"Maybe they're not dying," Maya said, setting down her glass. "Maybe they're just somewhere else."

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. Maya stood, her legs steady for the first time in months. The cat watched her with ancient, knowing eyes.

"Where are you going?" Ethan called after her.

"Somewhere else," she said.

And for the first time in three years, she meant it.