Dead Things Don't Float

The screen of her iPhone glowed at 2:47 AM, showing his text for the hundredth time: I think we need time. Elena dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned. She'd been walking through the last three weeks like a zombie—going to work, eating, sleeping—without ever really waking up.

Saturday morning, Sarah dragged her to the padel court. "You need to move your body," she'd said, and Elena had agreed because saying no required energy she didn't have. The game was a blur. Sarah's voice echoed off the glass walls. Elena's racket hit nothing but air. She watched the ball bounce away and thought about how everything in her life felt like that—something she kept swinging at and missing.

Afterward, they sat at the clubhouse restaurant. Sarah ordered a salad—spinach, feta, strawberries—while Elena picked at her fries.

"He's not coming back, El," Sarah said gently. "The zombies in those movies have more life than you do right now."

Elena laughed, dark and hollow. "Maybe I'm the one who died."

That evening, she found herself at the apartment complex pool. No one was around. The water sat still and dark, reflecting the moon like a black mirror. She dipped her foot in—cool, shocking. She thought about sinking into it, letting the water take her weight, the way she'd let everything else slip away.

Instead, she dove.

The silence underwater was absolute. No iPhone notifications. No well-meaning friends. No texts from men who needed time. Just her own breath, held tight in her chest. She floated on her back, staring up at the sky, and for the first time in weeks, something shifted. A small thing. A real thing.

She climbed out dripping, alive in a way she'd forgotten was possible. Her phone sat on the lounge chair where she'd left it. She picked it up, typed a message to Sarah: Padel tomorrow? Same time.

Then she blocked his number.

The water still lapped against the pool edges, but she was no longer drowning in it. She was just wet, cold, and finally, finally ready to dry off.