Drenched

My entire life lived in that glass rectangle. Every notification, every like, every 'u up?' text existed only on my iPhone screen, carefully curated and obsessively checked. I was running on fumes — third night this week I'd stayed up scrolling, watching everyone else live their 'best lives' while mine consisted of refreshing feeds until my eyes burned.

Then came the pool party. Jake's house, the one everyone talked about because his parents were never home and the pool was basically Olympic-sized. I'd spent two hours picking my outfit, planning my casual entrances and exits, rehearsing my responses to questions about summer plans.

But somewhere between Jake's too-loud music and Maya's overwhelming presence, I made a split decision. I left my phone on a lounge chair. Just walked away from it. The water called to me — not the shallow end where everyone congregated, but the diving well at the deep end, silent and dark and somehow inviting.

I'd barely been swimming since middle school, when chlorine became uncool and dry land meant better photo ops. But something in me cracked. I dove in.

The second I broke the surface, everything changed. No notifications. No performing. Just the shock of cold water and the rhythm of my own breath. I wasn't running from anything anymore. I was just... existing. No filters, no angles, no audience.

When I finally climbed out, hair plastered to my skull, chlorine in my nose, chest heaving — that's when I saw it. Maya and Jake and everyone else, phones in hand, capturing their perfectly aesthetic pool party moments. They looked exhausted.

And I'd never felt more awake.

'You okay?' Jake asked. 'You were down there awhile.'

I glanced at my iPhone, still sitting alone on the lounge chair. Screen black. Quiet.

'Yeah,' I said, and for the first time in forever, I actually meant it. 'Never better.'

The water still dripped from my skin, but I wasn't in a hurry to dry off. Let them capture their moments. I was busy living mine.