The Summer We Disconnected

The ethernet cable dangled from the ceiling like a dead snake, its end severed clean through. My third day working at Mountain View Pool, and already I'd managed to trip over the pool skimmer and yank the entire WiFi setup down the wall.

"You're not fixing that," Marcus, the pool manager, said without looking up from his phone. "We're going analog this summer. No WiFi, no social media. The kids'll survive."

I stared at my phone. No Instagram. No TikTok. No spying on Jake's stories to see if he was still at band camp or if he'd finally noticed my existence. My hair, already frizzing in the July humidity, seemed to sense my distress.

"Whatever," I said, because that's what you say when you're seventeen and your entire social life has just been disconnected.

The first week was brutal. I'd catch myself reaching for my phone during break, then remember—nothing. No checking likes, no stalking, no perfectly curated photos of my bad hair days. Instead, I actually talked to people. Like Lily, the swim team captain who practiced laps every morning in lane three.

"Your hair's huge today," she said on Thursday, surfacing from the water like a dolphin. "It's kind of awesome."

I touched my hair self-consciously. "It's the humidity."

"No, it's got personality. Mine's just..." She slicked back her wet brown hair. "Boring. Practical. Fast."

We started talking during her breaks. About nothing, really. Band camp (Jake was there, but she didn't care). How weird it was to be disconnected. The stuffed bear mascot that sat on the pool office shelf—some relic from the 90s that Marcus refused to throw away.

"My dad gave me that bear when I was seven," Marcus said unexpectedly one afternoon. "Same summer I almost drowned in this pool. Funny how things work."

By week three, I'd stopped checking my phantom phone. I learned that Lily was funny and insecure and hated competitive swimming but did it because her mom coached the team. I learned that the pool's filtration system made this weird hum that was actually kind of peaceful. I learned that without an audience, without performing for likes, I could just... be.

Then Jake showed up. Band camp over, tan and wearing his varsity jacket like it wasn't ninety degrees.

"Heard you're working here," he said, leaning against the fence. "Pool looks nice."

I stared at him. This was it. This was the moment I'd spent all those Instagram stories anticipating. And somehow, all I could think about was how Lily had swim practice in ten minutes and how the bear on the shelf had seen everything without judging anything.

"Yeah," I said. "It's been a weird summer."

"We should hang out," he said. "Catch up."

"Maybe," I said, and meant: no.

Later, in the pool office, Lily draped her towel over the bear's head. "Was that Jake? The one you were always spying on?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And nothing." I laughed. "He's just... content. Like a post from three years ago that doesn't even matter anymore."

Lily grinned, dripping water everywhere. "So. Want to go swimming after closing? Marcus won't care."

The ethernet cable still hung from the ceiling, dead and useless. But the pool water looked alive, reflecting the sunset, and somehow that was enough.