Screen Burn

The ocean spread before Elena like crumpled silk, the horizon blurring where sky met water at 6:47 AM. She'd been swimming every morning since arriving in Palm Beach three days ago—half-mile out, tread water while the sun breached the Atlantic, half-mile back. The salt water stung her eyes, woke her limbs, made her feel something other than hollow.

Her iPhone vibrated on the beach towel, third time in twenty minutes. Mark, again.

She didn't need to look. Knew his texts without reading: *We need to talk,* *Please answer,* *I'm worried.* The man who'd stopped looking at her years ago suddenly couldn't stop reaching out. The timing, as always, was exquisite. He'd waited until her executive review, until her mother's diagnosis, until now—when she'd finally booked the solo trip she'd threatened to take for half their marriage.

Elena floated on her back, waves rocking her gently. Ten years of corporate ladder-climbing, seven years of marriage, and she felt like she'd been moving through someone else's life. A zombie in a pantsuit, showing up to meetings she couldn't remember scheduling, smiling through dinners where conversation had shrunk to grocery lists and logistics. She was successful on paper. On paper, she had everything.

But at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling while Mark snored beside her, she'd started wondering when she'd died without noticing.

The iPhone buzzed again. A fourth time.

She began the swim back to shore, each stroke deliberate, muscles burning. The beach was empty except for one older couple walking near the water's edge, holding hands like they still meant it. Elena dried off with methodical precision, skin prickling in the morning air.

Picking up her phone, she swiped through the notifications without fully reading them. Then she composed one message, hit send, and powered it off.

*Don't wait up.*

She tossed the device into her beach bag, beneath the sunscreen and the novel she hadn't opened. Something shifted in her chest—not relief exactly, but recognition. The zombie sat up, stretched, opened its eyes.

The sun climbed higher as Elena walked toward the hotel, her wet hair slicked back, skin salt-sticky and alive. For the first time in years, she was hungry.