Under the Surface

The pool was nearly empty at 6 AM, just the way I liked it. I'd been swimming laps for forty-five minutes when I climbed out, water streaming from my hair, my muscles pleasantly exhausted. That's when I saw it — my iPhone vibrating on the bench where I'd left it. Sarah's name glowing on the screen.

I towel-dried my hair with methodical slowness, my heart already hammering harder than the cardio had managed. Sarah never called this early. Never.

"Hello?"

"I can't do this anymore." Her voice cracked, tired in a way I'd never heard before. "I'm leaving. I took the hat you bought me in Barcelona, but that's all. The rest can stay."

"What? Sarah, wait—"

"No waiting. I'm done running in circles with you, Marcus." A pause. "I saw your messages. Last night. While you were sleeping."

The blood drained from my face. I sat down hard on the bench, still dripping wet, surrounded by the smell of chlorine and the echo of splashing water from the last remaining swimmer.

"It wasn't—"

"Save it. I don't care what it was. I care that I've spent three years thinking we were building something real, and you've been treating it like a waiting room."

I opened my mouth, closed it. What could I say? She was right, and we both knew it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered finally. The words felt like stones in my throat.

"Me too." She hung up.

I sat there for a long time, until my skin grew cold and the morning sun slanted through the high windows, turning the water gold. Around me, people began arriving for their workouts — running, swimming, cycling — all of them moving forward, starting their days. I just sat there, dripping wet, holding a phone that had gone silent, wondering when exactly I had started drowning while still managing to look like I was swimming just fine.