The Physics of Falling

The water in the rooftop pool shimmered like spilled mercury, catching the last light of a Tuesday that had already decided to be forgettable. Maya lay on a lounge chair in her underwear, clutching a lukewarm gin and tonic, watching the cable guy's van pull away from the curb below.

She'd been running from her life for three weeks now — ever since Thomas left that Post-it on the refrigerator: *Your depression is exhausting.* Not *I'm sorry.* Not *We need to talk.* Just that. As if her grief were something she could fix with better self-care.

The door to the roof burst open. A man in a baseball cap stood there, looking everywhere but at her.

"Sorry," he said, turning to leave. "Thought this was the—"

"Stay," she heard herself say.

He hesitated, then sat on the edge of the adjacent chair. His name was Daniel. He worked in data analysis. He'd been laid off the same day she was, though from a different company in the same glass tower downtown.

"I can't bear the silence in my apartment," he admitted, staring at his shoes. "It's like the walls know I'm not supposed to be there during work hours."

They talked until the sky purpled, then darkened. About the way corporate loyalty had become a one-way street. About the physics of layoffs — how they caught you mid-grin, mid-sentence, mid-life. About how neither had really loved their partners, not really, but the absence still hollowed you out.

"My therapist says I'm supposed to lean into discomfort," Daniel said, finally looking at her. "What do you think that means?"

Maya set down her drink. The glass sweated onto the concrete. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wove through the canyons of the city. She thought about the way water could hold you up or pull you down, depending on how still you were.

"I think it means," she said, "we stop running."