The Drowning Room

She found him in the kitchen at 3 AM, staring into the goldfish bowl on the counter. The fish—orange and indifferent—circled its plastic castle, unaware it was swimming in the same water that had drowned their marriage two years ago.

"You look like a zombie," she said, leaning against the doorframe. He'd been working seventy-hour weeks at the firm since the promotion, his skin pale enough that she half-expected him to start moaning for brains instead of asking about her day.

He turned slowly, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "The goldfish died."

"No it didn't. It's right there."

"That's not the same one. The first one died three months ago. I've been replacing them before you notice." His voice cracked. "I thought if I could just keep this one thing alive, maybe—"

"Maybe what?"

He slumped against the counter. "Maybe I wouldn't feel like I'm already dead."

The water hummed in its filter, the gentle sound mocking them both. She thought about all the things they'd stopped saying—the "I love yous" that had turned into "did you pay the bills," the dreams dissolved into mortgage payments and careful silences.

She crossed the room, took his face in her hands. His skin was cool, and he leaned into her touch like a drowning man reaching for surface.

"We're not zombies yet," she whispered. "But we're walking dead if we keep living like this."

The goldfish swam on, oblivious to the way two hearts were breaking in its presence. She kissed him—tentatively, tasting the whiskey on his breath, the loneliness they'd both been drowning in.

"Come back to bed," she said. "And tomorrow, we buy a plant. Something that needs us to pay attention."

He nodded, and for the first time in months, something human flickered behind his eyes. The water kept flowing, carrying them both toward morning.