The Weight of Water

The pool closed at ten, but Elena had stayed past midnight, swimming lap after lap until her muscles burned. She'd been doing this since Marcus left — swimming until her body was too exhausted to feel the hollow ache in her chest.

Her iPhone sat on the deck chair, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications she couldn't bring herself to check. Probably Sarah again, asking if she was okay. Sarah, who'd introduced her to Marcus at that party last spring. Sarah, who kept insisting she was still Elena's friend even though Marcus was Sarah's brother.

Elena surfaced near the shallow end, gasping. The water tasted like chlorine and memory.

She'd bought Marcus a goldfish for his birthday in March. A stupid impulse purchase from a street fair. He'd named it Kafka, laughed that absurd laugh that made everything feel lighter. They'd watched it swim in endless circles in its bowl, both of them slightly drunk on cheap wine and the thrill of new love.

"Look at him," Marcus had said, his arm around her shoulders. "Just going round and round. Happy in his little world."

The phone buzzed again. Elena dragged herself out of the water, dripping onto the concrete. She stared at the screen — a text from Marcus. Her heart stuttered.

*Can we talk?*

Six weeks of silence, and now this.

She thought of Kafka the goldfish, which Marcus had probably kept when he moved out. Was it still alive? Did it matter? Nothing stayed the same. Even water changed — evaporated, flowed away, became something else.

The phone slipped from her wet hands, clattering onto the pool deck. She watched it slide toward the water, catching itself on the edge.

Elena sat on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water. She didn't pick up the phone. She didn't respond. She just sat there, feeling the weight of everything unsaid, everything that had drowned between them, and let herself float in the space between not knowing and not wanting to know.

The water was dark, reflecting a sky full of stars she couldn't name anymore.