Float

The pool water was too warm, like bathwater that had been sitting too long. Marcus floated on his back, staring at the ceiling where water stains mapped continents nobody would ever visit. His iPhone sat on the deck chair, face down, a dormant black rectangle that held the rest of his life.

He'd escaped the office — escaped David, that bull-headed VP who'd summoned him at 4:58 PM, bellowing about projections Marcus had never controlled, numbers that had been wrong since before he'd joined the team. "We need results, not excuses," David had said, his face reddening, arms wide like he was preparing to charge.

Now, submerged, Marcus let the water hold him. He thought about Sarah's text from this morning: *I think it's time we both admit what this is.* He hadn't responded. What was there to say?

His phone buzzed on the chair. He ignored it.

A group of teenagers clustered around the deep end, laughing, splashing. One of them wore a baseball cap pulled low — reminded him of Sunday afternoons in the park with his father, the ritual of catching pop flies, the way his dad's voice would carry across the field: "Eye on the ball, Marc, eye on the ball." Those afternoons felt like another lifetime now, swallowed by something nameless and vast.

He'd meant to call his mother. She'd left a voicemail three days ago. *Just checking in, honey. You sound tired.*

The phone buzzed again. Probably David, demanding something impossible. Or Sarah, clarifying whatever needed clarifying. He let it ring.

A swimmer cut through the lane beside him, a older woman with a steady stroke, purposeful and rhythmic. She didn't notice him floating there, suspended between the bottom and the surface, held up by nothing but water's refusal to let him sink.

He realized he'd been holding his breath.

Marcus exhaled, watched bubbles rise to the surface and break. Maybe tomorrow he'd answer. Maybe he'd float a little longer. The water kept him up either way.