The Cat Who Knew

I unravel like a frayed cable, my grip on reality loosening with each passing day. The vitamin bottles line my bathroom counter like silent witnesses to my decline - D3 for the nonexistent sunshine, B12 for energy I can't summon, magnesium for sleep that never comes.

My cat, Miso, watches from the doorway. She knows.

Six months after the funeral, I've become something else - not quite living, not quite dead. A zombie of my own making, moving through rooms that still smell like him, eating takeout over the sink, watching cable TV until my eyes burn. The shows blur together: reality dating, cooking competitions, true crime. It's all noise to fill the silence.

Wednesday nights are the hardest. That's when we used to go swimming at the community center. He'd do laps while I floated, my body weightless in the chlorinated water, our fingers brushing as we passed each other. Now I stand on the deck alone, toes curled over the edge, watching other couples laugh and splash. The water looks like liquid glass under fluorescent lights, and I consider walking into it fully dressed, letting it swallow me whole.

Instead, I go home. Miso winds through my legs, purring like she understands the gravity of my survival. She hops onto the couch and paws at the remote until I turn on the cable news - something worse than our loneliness.

The following Wednesday, I return to the pool. I swim until my muscles burn, until my thoughts quiet to a rhythmic splash-breathe-splash. In the locker room, a woman my age asks if I'm okay.

"I'm swimming," I say, and she nods like that's answer enough.

That night, I put away the vitamins. I don't need them anymore. I have Miso, and I have Wednesday nights, and I have this strange new version of myself that can bear the weight of water.