Surface Tension

I watch David sort his morning vitamins into the plastic organizer—A for Mondays, B for Tuesdays—his fingers precise, methodical. The same ritual for fifteen years. He doesn't notice I've stopped taking mine.

"Don't forget your hat," I say, as he always does before our Sunday padel match with the Morrison couple. She's newly divorced, radiant with something like freedom. He wears the baseball cap pulled low, shielding eyes that haven't truly looked at me in months.

The court smells like rubber and sunscreen. I watch David's back as he serves, the way his muscles move efficiently, joylessly. He's going through the motions of happiness, same as the vitamins, same as everything. The Morrison woman laughs at something he says, and I feel it then—that hollow echo in my chest where something used to live.

Afterward, we go swimming. The community pool is nearly empty, blue water shimmering under late afternoon light. I dive first, letting the silence envelope me. Underwater, I can finally scream without making a sound.

When I surface, David stands at the edge, fully clothed, still wearing his hat. He's checking his phone. He doesn't notice how long I stayed under, how the water burned in my lungs, how I almost didn't come up.

"You okay?" he asks, finally glancing up. "You look... tired."

"I'm fine," I say, treading water. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how we're all just swimming in circles," I say. "Waiting to touch the wall that isn't there."

He frowns, confused. He doesn't understand. He never has.

"Your vitamin," he says. "You didn't take it this morning."

"I know," I say, floating on my back, looking up at the sky. "I think I'm finally done with things that don't work."