Undertow

Maya stood at the edge of the Hudson, the gray water lapping at the concrete like a tired tongue. Her iPhone buzzed in her hand—Marcus again. Another message she wouldn't answer. She felt like a zombie moving through the days, hollowed out by three years of emails that asked for everything but gave nothing back.

The water reflected the bruised purple of sunset, beautiful and broken. She'd come here after leaving the office, after her boss had said "we need you to be more responsive" without ever asking how she was. Maya had nodded. She always nodded. She'd been nodding herself into oblivion since graduation.

Her thumb hovered over Marcus's text: *I know you're upset. Can we talk?*

Upset wasn't the word. Upset was for misplaced keys, for cancelled plans. This was something else—a cellular quiet, a profound unspooling. She thought of her mother's voice calling her a drama queen at fifteen, the way she'd learned to pack herself away in smaller and smaller boxes.

The iPhone screen cast a blue ghost-light across her face. Behind its black mirror, notifications stacked like corpses: work messages, calendar invites, a reminder to drink more water. The irony tasted metallic.

A gull cried overhead, sharp and alive. Maya watched it dive toward the water, emerge with something silver thrashing in its beak. Life feeding on life. That's how it worked. That's how it was supposed to work.

She wasn't living anymore. She was being digested.

Maya's fingers moved with terrifying clarity. She blocked Marcus. She drafted her resignation email—not saved, sent. She watched the message sail into the digital void, irrevocable as stepping off a ledge.

Then she waited.

The world didn't end. The water kept moving. Her heart kept beating, faster and slower all at once. For the first time in years, Maya felt something sharp enough to cut through the numbing routine.

Fear. Sweet, terrifying fear.

Alive. Finally, fucking alive.