The Cannonball Cure

Maya's iPhone clutched in her sweating palm, vibrating with another incoming text from him. *U up?* *Can we talk?* *I'm sorry.*

She was running. Not the athletic kind her mom kept nagging her to join track for. The running away from your feelings kind. Down the block, past Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning roses, toward the only place that made sense at 11:47 PM on a school night.

Jordan's pool.

His family was out of town—which Maya only knew because Jordan had posted a aesthetic sunset captioned 'peace out ✈️' from what looked like Colorado. Maya wasn't proud of checking his story. But breakup brain was a disease, and she was experiencing all the symptoms.

The pool gate creaked. That ominous horror movie sound that practically invited bad decisions. Maya slipped inside, phone flashlight illuminating the water's glassy surface. It looked peaceful. Calm. The opposite of her stomach, which had been doing gymnastics since Ryan's text at 2 AM explaining that he 'wasn't ready for anything serious' but 'still valued their connection.'

Gag.

Maya sat at the edge, feet dangling in. The water was unexpectedly warm, like a bath. Her iPhone sat beside her, screen lighting up every few seconds like a tiny disco of doom.

She could text back. Demand closure. Ask what 'not ready for serious' meant when he'd literally told her he loved her last week.

Instead, she took a deep breath.

And jumped in.

Fully clothed. AirPods still in. iPhone miraculously surviving on dry land because she possessed one functioning brain cell.

The water rushed over her, silencing everything. For ten seconds, Maya wasn't the girl who got ghosted by her first real boyfriend. She wasn't overthinking every interaction, wondering if she was too much, too intense, too whatever.

She was just floating.

Breaking the surface, gasping, hair plastered to her face like a drowned rat, Maya started laughing. Actual, real laughter. The kind that makes your stomach hurt.

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it.

Tonight, Maya was running toward something instead of away. Even if that something was just a really cold walk home soaking wet. She pulled herself from the pool, dripping and shivering, and grabbed her phone.

*Blocked,* she typed, and hit send.

The cannonball cure. 10/10 would recommend.