The Art of Staying Afloat

The vitamin C tablet stared at me from the kitchen counter, a tiny orange orb that was supposed to somehow fix everything. Mom's latest attempt at curing my 'end-of-school anxiety,' as she called it. I dry-swallowed it—because that's what 15-year-olds do when they're too stressed for water.

Outside, Jake's baseball smacked into the glove with a satisfying thwump. He was practicing for varsity tryouts next week, throwing perfect strikes against the garage door. Jake, who'd been hitting the gym since seventh grade, whose arms actually had muscles now. Meanwhile, I was over here questioning my entire existence.

"You coming?" he called out.

I shook my head. "Community pool. Gotta swim some laps before I lose my mind."

"You're not gonna try out?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Leave me alone."

The pool was my sanctuary. Nobody asking about college applications, or why I wasn't playing sports this year, or what my 'plan' was. Just water, chlorine, and the rhythmic comfort of lap after lap until my brain finally shut up.

But today, even the water couldn't drown out the noise in my head. What was I doing? Everyone else seemed to have it figured out—Jake with baseball, Sarah with student council, Maya with her art portfolio. And here I was, just... floating.

I surfaced, gasping, and noticed the old stuffed bear sitting on the pool deck where some little kid had left it. A stupid, bedraggled thing with one eye missing. I remembered when Mom had tried to throw mine out last summer. I'd protested so hard she'd let me keep it, even though I was 'too old' for that stuff now.

Some things you're never too old to need.

The pool filter hummed in the background. I floated on my back, staring at the ceiling, and it hit me—maybe I wasn't falling behind. Maybe I was just learning to swim in my own lane. Jake could have his baseball moments, and I could have my floating ones.

I climbed out of the pool, grabbed my towel, and sent Jake a text: 'Count me in for tryouts tomorrow.'

The vitamin could wait. Right now, I had bigger fish to fry—and maybe, just maybe, I was finally learning how to bear the weight of growing up.