The Drowning Room

The sound of running **water** filled the bathroom, drowning out everything else. Maya sat on the edge of the tub, clutching her **iPhone** like a rosary, screen illuminating her tear-stained face with the harsh blue light of another negative pregnancy test result.

"You're becoming a **zombie**," Mark had said that morning, his voice gentle but cutting. "Just going through the motions. I miss the woman who used to laugh at my terrible jokes."

She'd wanted to scream that grief wasn't a performance, that she didn't owe him her wit while her body failed her month after month. Instead she'd swallowed her prenatal **vitamin** with mechanical precision, the chalky tablet sliding down her throat like a promise she couldn't keep.

Now, Barnaby—their golden retriever who'd become the child they couldn't conceive—nudged her knee with his wet nose, whining softly. He sensed everything. **Dog** intuition, people called it, but Maya thought Barnaby just understood loss better than humans did. He'd been a rescue, after all.

Her phone buzzed. Mark again: "Working late. Don't wait up."

Maya turned off the faucet. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. She stared at her reflection—hollow-cheeked, eyes ancient—and wondered at what point a marriage becomes a hospice for the people you used to be. The water lapped at the drain like a whispered question she wasn't ready to answer.

Tomorrow she would call the therapist. Tomorrow she would ask Mark what he needed. Tomorrow she would figure out how to want something else, something that could still be beautiful.

Tonight, she would just sit here with her **dog**, letting the bathroom fill with steam until she couldn't see herself at all.