Swimming Past the Dead Years

Emma found the vitamin bottle on the third shelf of the medicine cabinet, behind the expired prescription bottles and the half-used tube of antiseptic cream. Vitamin D, the label read — the sunshine vitamin, she'd called it back when she still believed in small miracles. That was three years ago, before she stopped taking them, before the days started blurring together like watercolors left in the rain.

She swallowed one dry, thinking about Sarah.

They'd met at the downtown YMCA, both doing laps at 5:30 AM, the only sane people in a city of early risers. Sarah had told her once that swimming was the only thing that quieted the static in her head — the same static Emma had been hearing since her promotion to regional director, since the divorce papers landed on her doorstep like a dead bird.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah had said during their third swim session, treading water beside Emma. "No offense. But you've got that thousand-yard stare, like you've seen things that would break lesser women."

Emma had laughed, the sound foreign even to her own ears. "That's exactly what I am. Just another office zombie, shuffling through spreadsheets and Zoom meetings, waiting for someone to put me out of my misery."

Sarah had reached out, her fingers pruned from the water, and touched Emma's shoulder. "I prescribe vitamins and friendship. Also, tequila. But mostly, we keep swimming. That's how zombies become human again. One stroke at a time."

They'd been friends for seventeen months. They'd sw laps together, shared tequila and takeout, complained about corporate bureaucracy and dating disasters. Sarah had made Emma feel alive again, made her remember what it felt like to want things.

Then came the phone call at 3 AM, Sarah's brother's voice cracking as he said the words. Brain aneurysm. She was gone. Just like that.

Emma stood at the sink now, three months later, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The zombie stare was back, darker this time. She turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on her face, and grabbed her gym bag.

The pool was empty at 5:30 AM. She dove in, cutting through the water stroke after stroke, until her muscles burned and her lungs screamed. This was how you survived the dead years — you kept moving, even when every part of you wanted to sink. You took your vitamins. You honored your dead friends by living, even if living felt like the hardest thing you'd ever done.

Emma surfaced, gasping for air, and began another lap.