Chlorine and Regret

The pool at the university recreation center was never meant to host existential crises at 11 AM on a Tuesday, but here I was, staring at the undulating water while my marriage dissolved via text message.

Marcus appeared beside me, sweating from our padel match—his fourth this week, at age forty-two, because someone had told him it was the sport of young professionals. 'You're not drinking your water,' he said, gesturing to the bottle I'd been clutching for twenty minutes.

'It's not water.' I held it up. 'Vitamin D supplements. Trying to fix myself from the inside out.'

Marcus laughed, but it wasn't his usual laugh. It was the laugh of a man who'd been my best friend since college and had watched me make progressively worse decisions for two decades. 'The vitamins aren't the problem, David.'

We sat in silence while college students swam laps, their youth painful in its abundance. My phone vibrated again—Sarah's lawyer this time. The cat we'd adopted together, Barnaby, was now apparently *her* cat. The attorney mentioned joint custody arrangements as if discussing our child, not a tabby who mostly slept on clean laundry.

'You know,' Marcus said, 'we started playing padel because you said you needed to get out of the house. That your marriage was... what did you call it? 'Like sharing space with a disappointed ghost.''

I swallowed the vitamin pill dry. 'I still love her.'

'She doesn't love you. That's different.' Marcus stood up. 'Come on. One more match. loser buys lunch.'

The pool water shimmered, deceptively calm. I thought about jumping in—fully clothed, phone and all—and letting the chlorine wash everything away. Instead, I followed my friend to the court, carrying my vitamins like a talisman against a future that was already happening without me.