Drowning in Pixels

The iPhone sat on the edge of the bathtub, screen glowing with yet another notification from Marcus. *'Can we talk?'* *'Please answer.'* *'I never meant to hurt you.'* I turned it face down and slid into the swimming pool behind my apartment complex at midnight. The water was colder than I expected, shocking me awake like a slap I'd been asking for.

Three months ago, Marcus had been my best friend—my person, the one who knew everything. Then came the screenshots, the forwarded messages, the discovery that our entire friendship had been performance art for his workplace drama. He'd been documenting our conversations for months, using my drunken confessions as entertainment for his coworkers. The betrayal wasn't just personal; it was professional.

I floated on my back, staring at the apartment windows where people lived lives that didn't feel like carefully curated content. Marcus's texts had continued even after I blocked him everywhere else. New numbers. Fake profiles. The persistence of someone who refused to accept they'd become the villain in their own story.

My phone vibrated against the tiled pool deck. I ignored it.

The water held me like a lover who wouldn't let go, and for the first time in weeks, I could breathe. Something about the weightlessness made the anger float away too. Marcus wasn't worth drowning over—literally or metaphorically.

I pulled myself from the pool, water streaming off me like tears I hadn't cried yet. The iPhone lit up again: *'I'm outside.'*

I wrapped myself in a towel and walked to the gate, where Marcus stood looking smaller than I remembered. He held up his own phone. 'I deleted everything,' he said. 'The screenshots. The conversations. I wanted you to know.'

'Some things don't disappear just because you hit delete,' I said, and locked the gate behind me.