The Weight of Empty Rooms

The cable bill sat on the kitchen counter, another artifact of the life she'd left behind. Sarah had taken the furniture, the good knives, even the coffee maker. But she'd forgotten to cancel the premium package—eighty-seven dollars a month for channels I didn't watch.

My phone buzzed. Another wellness reminder from that app she'd made me download. Time for your evening vitamin D. I swallowed the pill with lukewarm tap water, wondering if I'd ever stop living according to schedules we'd built together.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky. The storm had been brewing for hours, the air thick with that electric pressure that precedes something breaking. I'd always loved thunder—Sarah had hated it. She'd burrow into the sheets while I stood at the window, counting the seconds between flash and boom.

Now I stood alone.

Barnaby, our retriever mix, used to hide in the bathtub during storms. Three months ago, the cancer had taken him. Sarah had left two weeks later. Sometimes I couldn't remember which loss had hollowed me out more.

I found myself driving, then, through rain that lashed the windshield in rhythmic accusations. The community center pool was closed, but I knew the side door code. Sarah had taught swimming lessons there before the promotion, before the long hours, before the emails I'd pretended not to notice.

The pool was dark except for emergency lights casting long shadows on the water's surface. I'd never learned to swim properly. Sarah had promised to teach me, summers ago, but there'd always been something more urgent.

I kicked off my shoes and stepped to the edge. The water reflected lightning in jagged bursts, illumination revealing nothing but my own insufficient self.

Tomorrow I'd call the cable company. Tomorrow I'd cancel the vitamins I didn't need. Tomorrow I'd learn to float.

Tonight, I just watched the storm break itself against the earth, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was drowning.