Tropical Depression

The iPhone lay face-down on the nightstand, its screen illuminating every few minutes with notifications I'd stopped caring about. Three days since David left. Four since I'd bothered to check anything beyond the time.

I pushed open the balcony doors and stepped into the humidity. The Caribbean stretched below our villa—an impossibly blue expanse that made everything back home feel gray by comparison. This was supposed to be our anniversary trip. Instead, I'd come alone, unable to face the refunds, unable to face our empty apartment.

I went swimming at dusk, when the ocean turned molten silver and the other guests had retreated to air-conditioned dinners. The saltwater stung my eyes—whether from the ocean or my own tears, I couldn't tell. I floated on my back, letting the current carry me, wondering how long I could drift before someone noticed. How long before I became one of those things people whispered about at brunch, the woman who booked a romantic getaway for two and showed up alone.

That's when I saw the goldfish.

It was impossible, out here in the open ocean—a tiny flash of orange darting through the dark water. I dove deeper, salt flooding my sinuses, and followed it toward shore. There, caught in a tide pool among the rocks, it swam in frantic circles: a pet released by some child, now fighting waves it was never meant to encounter.

I cupped it in my palm, its gills fluttering against my skin, and carried it to the hotel's decorative pond. As it slipped from my hand into safer waters, I understood something about survival. Some things are meant for oceans, others for bowls. David had been my bowl—safe, contained, familiar. But somewhere along the way, I'd grown too large for that space.

Back in the room, I picked up my iPhone. David's last message still waited: *I'm sorry. I never knew how to love someone who needed so much space.*

I deleted it. Then I booked a scuba diving lesson for tomorrow morning.

Some fish aren't meant for captivity. Some women aren't meant for small loves.