Submersion

The pool sat stagnant in her backyard, a greenish mirror reflecting nothing but the dying light of October. Elena had stopped cleaning it after the divorce, letting nature reclaim what Marcus had so meticulously maintained. He'd been the one who wanted it—the whole suburban package, right down to the automatic cleaner and the carefully pH-balanced water that always smelled faintly of chemicals and longing.

She sat on the edge now, feet dangling in murky water that had become home to mosquito larvae and something darker—memories she'd been trying to drown for three years. Her iPhone buzzed against her thigh, that familiar phantom vibration that still made her heart jump. No messages. Just the meditation app reminding her to breathe, as if she'd forgotten how.

In her lap: a plastic container of wilted spinach, one of those healthy-eating kicks she started every Monday and abandoned by Wednesday. She picked at a brown-edged leaf, thinking about how Marcus would've made some joke about her always buying spinach just to watch it die in the refrigerator. How he'd laugh at her failed attempts at self-improvement, that gentle laughter that had made her feel seen even when she was being ridiculous.

The phone lit up with a notification: "Marcus Fisher—LinkedIn Profile View."

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She hadn't spoken to him since the day he moved out, hadn't responded to the texts he sent for the first six months, the ones asking if she was okay, if she needed anything, if she wanted to try counseling. She'd deleted those without reading, preserving her anger like it was something sacred.

Now she typed his name into the search bar, watched his profile picture load—him and someone new, both smiling against the backdrop of a pool that wasn't theirs. His arm around her waist, casual intimacy that made something in Elena's chest crack open. They looked happy. They looked like people who didn't spend Sunday evenings dangling their legs in abandoned pools, eating spinach straight from the container while checking their ex-husband's social media.

She closed the app. Opened the camera instead. Pointed it at the pool, at the dark water that had swallowed their marriage the way it swallowed light. In the screen's reflection, she saw herself—forty-two, alone, ridiculous. But beneath that, something else: the realization that she was the one who'd stopped swimming, not him.

Elena threw the spinach into the water. Watched it float, dark against dark. Then she stood up, walked inside, and finally blocked him.