Dead Weight at the Deep End

My gray beanie was basically glued to my head sophomore year. It wasn't a fashion statement — it was armor. Under that hat, I could disappear. Behind the brim, nobody could see me checking my phone every twelve seconds, waiting for a text that never came.

Jordan and I had been best friends since seventh grade. But lately, hanging out felt like swimming through Jell-O. She'd scroll TikTok while I talked. I'd trail off midsentence, and she wouldn't notice. Still, I showed up at her pool party because that's what you do when you're scared of becoming a nobody.

"You coming in?" Jordan yelled, already doing cannonballs with the cool kids. Her new friends, actually. I was just... there. Like furniture.

I clutched my towel. The pool looked like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

"Don't be a baby," someone said. I couldn't tell who.

That word hit different when you're fifteen. Baby. Child. I peeled off my sneakers and stood at the edge in my oversized t-shirt, heart hammering like trapped birds against my ribs. Then I jumped.

The water shocked my lungs. I kicked toward the surface, breaking through gasping, chlorine stinging my eyes. Through blurry vision, I saw Jordan laughing at something someone else said. She hadn't even noticed I'd jumped.

I floated there, treading water, watching my friend live her best life without me. And that's when it hit me — I'd been a zombie for months. Showing up. Going through motions. Waiting for something that was already dead.

I swam to the ladder, hauled myself out, and wrung out my t-shirt. Grabbed my towel. My hat.

"Leaving already?" Jordan called, finally seeing me.

"Yeah," I said. And I didn't look back. First time all year I walked away without waiting for permission.

Later that night, I threw the hat in my closet. Tomorrow I'd show up to school bare-headed. Let people see me. Let them see someone who finally learned how to swim alone.