Drowning in Shallow Water

Maya stood at the kitchen counter, her reflection ghosting across the darkened window behind the sink. The rain had been falling for three days straight, a relentless gray curtain that blurred the boundary between their apartment and the world outside. On the granite counter before her lay the morning's offerings: a glass of murky green liquid—spinach, kale, something else she couldn't identify—and a precisely organized row of supplements.

"Vitamin D for mood, B-complex for energy, magnesium for sleep," Daniel said, coming up behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders for a moment, warm and heavy, before he moved to pour coffee. "The research is solid on these, Maya. Just give it two weeks."

Two weeks. It had been six months since the miscarriage, four since she'd gone back to work, three since Daniel had started researching his way out of their grief. The vitamins multiplied like rabbits. The spinach smoothies became thicker, greener, more insistent.

"I'm not depressed, Daniel," she said, not for the first time. "I'm just... done."

He laughed softly, without humor. "That's literally what depression sounds like."

She picked up the green glass, watching the **water** from the rain streak the window behind his head. Outside, the Chicago River was already swollen, creeping toward its banks. Everything was flooding, always flooding. She took a sip and nearly gagged—earthy, metallic, the taste of things forced down unwilling throats.

"The **spinach** is organic," he said, turning away. "Cost twice as much. Worth it, right?"

"Right."

"I ordered that new **vitamin** regimen online," he continued, his voice bright with the kind of hope that broke her heart. "The one from that Stanford study. Should be here Tuesday."

Maya set the glass down. The green liquid settled slowly, particles of blended matter drifting like sediment, like things that wanted to stay down.

"Daniel," she said. "I got the offer. In Portland."

He froze. "Portland? You never mentioned—"

"I got it yesterday."

"You're leaving."

"I think I need to."

The silence that followed was heavy, full of everything they'd stopped saying. The rain drummed harder against the glass. He turned to face her slowly, and she saw it—the fear that vitamins couldn't fix, that spinach smoothies couldn't solve. Some griefs were oceans, and you either learned to swim or you let yourself drown.

"I could come with you," he said quietly.

"Could you?"

"No," he admitted. "Not really."

She nodded. The rain fell harder still. Outside, something—maybe a branch, maybe a life—crashed into the water with a sound like surrender.