Still Waters

The hotel pool was empty at 3 AM, the water still as glass. Elena sat on the edge, her legs dangling in the chlorinated blue, nursing her third mini bottle of vodka from the room service tray. Beside her sat a forgotten room service burger, a lone leaf of spinach wilting on the paper plate like her marriage had—slowly, quietly, without anyone noticing until it was too late.

Seven years. That's how long she'd stayed with Mark, convincing herself that love was something you earned through sacrifice. Like accepting that he'd never remember anniversaries, or that his emotional unavailability was just stress, or that the distance growing between them was normal. It wasn't normal. It was death by inches.

She'd come to this same hotel alone, leaving her ring on the bathroom counter. No note. Mark probably hadn't even noticed yet—he was likely asleep, or maybe working late again. He was always working late.

In the corner of the pool area, a decorative goldfish tank glowed with soft blue light. Elena watched them circling endlessly, orange flashes in the dark. They reminded her of the carnival goldfish Mark had won her on their first date, floating in a plastic bag all the way home. That fish had lived three years. Longer than their happiness had.

"Goddamn it," she whispered, finally letting herself cry. The tears fell into the pool, disappearing like everything else she'd given him.

Her phone buzzed. Mark's name lit up the screen. For a moment, she considered answering. Instead, she pressed the power button, watching the screen fade to black.

The spinach leaf slipped from her plate and fell into the water, drifting slowly toward the bottom. Elena watched it sink, thinking how some things just weren't worth saving anymore.

She stood up, grabbed her room key, and walked toward the elevator. Tomorrow she'd figure out the rest. Tonight, she just needed to sleep.