Dead Pixels

The water was cold enough to shock her lungs awake. Maria hadn't been swimming in years — not since the funeral, when her mother had joked about wanting to be cremated and scattered in the ocean because her father had always complained about her getting sand in the car. Some joke.

Now, at 2 AM, the hotel pool was empty save for her and the rhythmic hum of the filtration system. She'd left her phone in the room deliberately. No emails. No texts from David asking if they were still doing Sunday dinner. No Instagram stories of everyone living their best, most curated lives.

But her pocket buzzed anyway.

She swore and pulled herself to the pool's edge, water streaming from her hair like tears. Her iPhone glowed against the wet tile. David. Again.

*You've been a zombie all week, his text read. I'm worried.*

Maria laughed, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. A zombie. That was rich. She'd spent ten years building the career he wanted her to have, wearing the clothes he liked, hosting the dinner parties he planned. She'd been going through the motions so long she'd forgotten what wanting felt like. The real zombie work had been her marriage, animated by obligation instead of pulse.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, ready to type the same reassurance she'd given a hundred times. *I'm fine. Just tired.*

Instead, she watched a droplet of pool water slide down the screen, distorting David's name into something unrecognizable.

Maria pressed and held the power button. The familiar shutdown slider appeared. She hesitated — just like she'd hesitated at the altar, just like she'd hesitated when the promotion came with a move to Seattle, just like she'd hesitated every time she'd chosen someone else's version of her life.

Not this time.

She swiped to power off. The screen went black, and in that darkness, Maria finally saw herself clearly.

The phone slipped from her fingers and sank to the bottom of the pool, joining her old life in the deep end. Maria kicked off the wall and began to swim, really swim, for the first time in a decade. Whatever came next would be hers.