High Tide at Low Battery

Maya hadn't felt like herself since the promotion—that strange, suspended state where you move through meetings and emails and performance reviews like something animate but not quite alive. A zombie in a blazer, making six figures and unable to remember the last time she'd tasted her dinner.

She sat on the bathroom floor at 2 AM, clutching her iPhone like a lifeline. Richard was asleep in the next room, but they hadn't really spoken in weeks. Not since she'd found herself staring at him across the dinner table, realizing she couldn't recall the last time he'd made her laugh.

The HDMI cable dangling from the bedroom TV had been disconnected for three days. Neither of them had bothered to reconnect it. That was them, she thought—disconnected signals, screens gone dark.

Her thumb hovered over Sarah's name. Her sister, who'd moved to Portland six months ago. Who'd sent texts that went unanswered until Maya's silence became its own answer.

The faucet dripped. Water pooled in the basin, and Maya watched her reflection distort in the gathering rivulets. She looked tired. She looked like someone who'd forgotten how to want things.

Richard found her there at dawn, as gray light seeped through the frosted window. He didn't ask what was wrong. He simply sat beside her on the cold tile and took her hand.

"I feel like I'm disappearing," she whispered. It was the first honest thing she'd said in months.

"I see you," he said. And something broke open in her chest—something that had been dammed up behind performance metrics and quarterly goals and the relentless, crushing weight of expectation.

She turned off her phone. The black screen reflected a woman beginning to remember herself.

"Stay," she said. "Let's just—stay."

The water kept dripping, counting out time like a slow, patient heartbeat. Outside, rain began to fall, and for the first time in a long time, Maya wanted to be there for it.