Drowning on Dry Land

The padel court shimmered in the heat, that particular shade of blue that always reminded Elena of shallow water. She gripped her racquet, the sweat making her palm slide against the handle. Across the net, Mark laughed at something his brother said—head thrown back, teeth white against tanned skin, the picture of effortless enjoyment. The zombie state had begun three months ago, or maybe six. Time moved differently when you were just going through the motions, when your body performed the expected actions while your mind drifted somewhere else, untethered. Elena served. The ball hit the mesh wall and rebounded at an impossible angle. Mark returned it easily, his movements precise and athletic. Everything about him was precise and athletic. Their friends envied what they had—the modern apartment with the floor-to-ceiling windows, the holidays in Tuscany, the Saturday morning padel matches followed by brunch at that place where the coffee cost nine euros and came in cups the size of thimbles. 'You're quiet,' Mark said later, in the car. Air conditioning hummed. Elena watched the condensation on her water bottle, the way droplets slid down the plastic like tears. 'Just tired.' It wasn't a lie, not exactly. But the exhaustion went deeper than sleep could fix. That night, she stood in the shower until the hot water ran cold, letting it plaster her hair to her skull, letting it fill her mouth and nose until she had to gasp for air. Some part of her wanted to stay under, to see what happened if she just stopped fighting the current. But she didn't. She turned off the tap, toweled herself dry, and climbed into bed beside Mark, who was already asleep, his breathing rhythmic and peaceful, entirely unaware that the woman beside him was slowly learning to live underwater.