The Shallows

Margaret watched the WhatsApp message blur into pixelated gray on her **iPhone** screen. *Can't talk now. Client meeting.* Again.

She let the device slip onto the lounge chair and walked toward the **pool**. The water was that impossibly blue turquoise that only existed in places where money flowed like water — their fifteenth anniversary trip, paid for with the hours he spent chained to his desk, tethered to her via fiber **cable** and satellite.

"Ready for **padel**?" Mark called from the court, racket in hand, oblivious to the silence stretching between them like a rubber band pulled too tight. Their daughter's favorite sport, the one they'd promised to learn together. Another postponed promise.

"Not feeling it," she said, not shouting. He didn't hear her anyway.

She stepped into the water. The shock of cold hit her skin, sharp and immediate. She began **swimming**, slicing through the silence, each stroke a question she'd stopped asking. When had conversation become transactional? When had touch become scheduled? When had they become roommates who shared a bed and a mortgage but nothing else?

Underwater, she could almost believe they were happy. Almost.

Her phone buzzed on the lounge chair. Possibly him. Probably work. She stayed submerged, holding her breath, wanting to see how long she could last before she had to surface — before she had to choose between the life she was living and the one she'd stopped living years ago.

The decision floated toward her like bubbles, light and terrifying.

She let them go and rose, gasping.