Floating in Orange Light

I float weightless in the pool's cool embrace, watching the orange sunset bleed across the sky. The water ripples around me, distorting the laughing faces above—the people I've called friends for five years. Only now, as I float with Mark's iphone in a waterproof pouch against my chest, do I realize how little I actually know them.

The text had come through an hour ago: "Can't wait to see you tonight, same hotel as last time?" From Sarah.

Sarah, who's currently three margaritas deep and laughing at something Mark said. Sarah, who held my hair back when I had food poisoning last year. Sarah, the friend who introduced me to Mark at this same pool party five years ago.

The water suddenly feels less like comfort and more like suffocation. I'd wanted to confront them, but what's the point? The scene is too perfect—orange light gilding everything golden, making their betrayal seem beautiful. Making me feel crazy for noticing the cracks.

I press the phone to my chest underwater, like I'm drowning the evidence along with my marriage. But the screen glows through the pouch, persistent as a heartbeat.

Behind me, a splash breaks the surface. "You okay down there, Elena?" Mark's voice, lazy and unconcerned. He never notices when I'm drowning in plain sight.

I let myself sink deeper, watching the orange light fracture and disappear. The phone buzzes again against my ribs.