The Weight of Floating

The pool closed at ten, but Marcus lingered in the water long past the lifeguard's departure. Swimming had become his liturgy—each lap a prayer he didn't believe in anymore. The chlorine stung his eyes, or maybe that was just the crying he refused to do during daylight hours.

His iPhone vibrated on the pool deck, the screen illuminating with Sarah's name again. Three missed calls. Twelve texts. He watched the device pulse against the concrete like a dying heart, refusing to answer. What could she possibly say that would matter?

Marcus pulled himself from the water, his body feeling heavy in a way it never had before. He peeled the orange from his bag, the citrus scent hitting him with violent clarity. It was David's favorite fruit—the way David would eat them at their son's baseball games, sticky fingers and juice running down his chin, laughing when Marcus would wipe his face with exaggerated tenderness.

That was three months ago. Before the accident. Before Marcus became this thing that walked through his job, cooked meals he didn't eat, slept beside a wife who looked at him with terrified eyes.

He'd become a zombie, really. Not the movie kind with rotting flesh and outstretched arms, but something worse: a man who should feel everything and felt nothing instead. Sarah kept asking him to try, to go to therapy, to talk about their son, to maybe—heaven forbid—try again. But how could he explain that every breath felt like betrayal?

His phone buzzed again. Sarah, probably wondering where he was, or maybe just needing to hear something real from him. Marcus found himself typing without thinking, his thumbs moving across the screen with practiced familiarity.

"I'm still here," he wrote. "I'm trying."

The orange rind fell in strips around his feet. Some things, you peeled away layer by layer, until you reached something you could stomach. Marcus deleted the text, stood up, and dove back into the water. For tonight, that was enough.