The Drowning Room

Maya stood by the office water cooler, watching the bubbles rise in the plastic bottle like trapped souls seeking escape. At 34, she'd learned that corporate architecture was designed to keep you thirsty — not for water, but for something you could never quite name.

"You're not eating enough," her mother had said during their last strained call, pressing a bottle of vitamin D supplements into her hand. "These'll help with the darkness." Maya had taken them, swallowing the gel capsules each morning with the same mechanical efficiency she applied to everything else: emails, quarterly reports, the careful arrangement of her expression during meetings.

The hat sat on her desk — a wide-brimmed thing she'd bought on impulse three years ago, never worn. It represented the version of herself who might have moved to a coastal town, opened a bookstore, stopped performing happiness she didn't feel. Instead, she wore her professionalism like a second skin, seamless and suffocating.

Her boss, David, appeared beside her at the cooler. His tie was loosened, something she'd never seen before. "They're letting people go, Maya. Starting Monday."

The water dispenser bubbled. She thought about the vitamins in her drawer, the hat on her desk, the mortgage payment due in three days.

"I know," she said.

"You know?"

"I've seen the spreadsheets, David. I've made the spreadsheets."

He looked at her then — really looked at her — and she realized he was just as tired, just as trapped in the rising water. The question wasn't whether they'd drown. It was whether they'd do it pretending everything was fine.

Maya placed her plastic cup on the counter. "After work today, I'm going to put on my hat and walk down to the pier."

David blinked. "Just walk?"

"Just walk. Then I'm coming back tomorrow to help whoever's left rebuild. But tonight — tonight I'm someone else."