Chlorine and Regret

She floated on her back in the hotel pool at 3 AM, the chlorinated water buoying her like a mother who'd long since stopped pretending to care. The pool lights were off, but the moon traced silver patterns across the surface, and she watched them, mesmerized by how easily they broke apart when she moved.

I've been doing this for months now. Floating. Existing. Mark sleeps in their room while she slips out here to stare at the water. Last week, she'd started taking vitamin D supplements—some desperate attempt to fix what she'd started calling "the darkness." The pharmacist had smiled knowingly, as if he saw dozens of women like her every day, searching for something in a bottle.

"What are you doing out here?" Mark's voice cuts through the silence. He's standing at the pool's edge, silhouetted against the moonlight.

"Floating," she says, treading water now. "You should try it."

He doesn't move. "I found the receipt for the vitamins. Three hundred dollars' worth."

She treads water harder. The pool begins to feel smaller. "So?"

"You never told me you were feeling that bad."

"I'm not—"

"Anna, you bought enough to treat a deficiency that requires medical supervision. That's not just feeling tired."

She stops moving. The water holds her up. "Maybe I just wanted to see if something could change."

"Like what?"

"Like anything."

Mark sits on the edge, dangling his feet in the pool. "I cancelled my trip. The one next week."

The water around his legs ripples outward, breaking her silver patterns.

"Why?"

"Because I came out here to find you at 3 AM," he says. "And I realized I'd rather figure out why you need three hundred dollars' worth of vitamin D than leave you alone to float in the dark."

She swims to the edge. His hand finds hers in the water. For the first time in months, she doesn't want to be anywhere else.