The Weight of Water

Maya stood at the kitchen sink, watching the water cascade over her hands—burning hot, then freezing cold, as if temperature could somehow shock her system into feeling something again. The iphone on the counter lit up with another notification from Alex. *I'm sorry. Let me explain.* She stared at the screen until it went dark, a mirror reflecting her hollowed eyes.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Sarah said from the doorway. She'd let herself in, like she always did when Maya stopped answering texts. Her best friend since college, Sarah possessed an unnerving ability to materialize exactly when needed, carrying takeout and the kind of pragmatic comfort that Maya couldn't manufacture for herself.

"He wants to talk," Maya said, voice cracking from disuse. She hadn't spoken in two days.

Sarah set the food on the counter, reached past Maya to turn off the tap. "Of course he does. People who lie always want to explain why their lies weren't really lies. They want you to understand their nuance, their gray areas, their fucking pain." She moved closer, her presence solid and real. "Maya, look at me."

Maya turned. Sarah's face was fierce with protectiveness, the same expression she'd worn when they were nineteen and Maya's mother died, when they were twenty-six and Maya lost her job, now at thirty-four with her marriage dissolving like sugar in hot water.

"You don't drown yourself trying to keep someone else afloat," Sarah said. "That's not what love is supposed to be."

Maya's gaze drifted back to the iphone, that sleek rectangle holding Alex's explanations, his rationalizations, his carefully crafted narratives. How many nights had she scrolled through his messages instead of sleeping? How many times had she believed him when he said *trust me, you're overthinking*?

"I think I already am drowning," Maya whispered.

Sarah's hand covered hers, warm and dry. "Then let's pull you up. Starting with this." She gestured to the phone. "What do you actually want?"

Maya picked up the device, thumb hovering over the screen. The water was still running somewhere, distant now. She pressed and held until the power-off slider appeared, then swiped it. The screen went black, and for the first time in three years, Maya could finally see her own reflection clearly.