The Last Dive

The apartment complex pool was empty at 3 AM, the water still and black as obsidian. Elias sat on the concrete edge, his legs dangling in the chlorinated chill, nursing a warm beer he'd brought up from the fridge. Above him, the fuzzy glow of the rooftop **cable** relay flickered—his only companion since Sarah moved out three weeks ago.

On the portable TV propped on a lounge chair, the **baseball** game played on mute. ninth inning, two outs, bases loaded. He should care. The ticket stubs from their first date—opening day, three years back—still gathered dust on his nightstand. But he couldn't remember the last time something made him feel anything at all.

He felt like a **zombie** moving through the wreckage of his life. Same commute, same cubicle, same hollowed-out version of himself. The divorce papers sat on his kitchen table, signed and sealed. Sarah hadn't even fought him on the house. Just wanted out.

The real **bear** of a problem was the money. Her lawyer had made it clear: alimony, child support for a kid he saw every other weekend, the mortgage he couldn't afford alone. He was drowning in slow motion.

Elias stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, let it fall to the concrete. The night air bit his skin. He'd never been much of a swimmer—Sarah was the one who'd dragged him to this pool, who'd tried to teach him to float instead of fight the water. She'd said he was too rigid, too convinced that staying above water meant constant thrashing.

"You have to trust it," she'd told him once, her hands on his shoulders in the shallow end. "Let the water hold you up."

He stepped to the edge. The baseball game ended—some team won, some team lost. The screen went to static.

Elias didn't dive. He sat back down, put his face in his hands, and finally let himself cry. The tears came hot and fast, and when they slowed, he realized the water wasn't so cold anymore.

Tomorrow he'd call a lawyer. Tomorrow he'd figure out the money. Tonight, he'd just learn to float.