Water Damage

Maya watched her hair fall to the salon floor in dark, silent coils. Three years of growth, gone. Her stylist, Sarah—once her closest friend until the confession last month—worked in professional silence. The scissors made that rhythmic snick-snick sound that always reminded Maya of medical instruments.

"You sure about this?" Sarah asked, not meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"Never been surer."

Maya's phone buzzed on the counter. Another reminder: Vitamin D supplement. She'd been taking them since the miscarriage, along with everything else the fertility specialist prescribed. A daily regimen of hope in capsule form.

Outside, rain lashed against the glass. The forecast warned of flooding. Her basement had already taken on three inches of water yesterday. She'd spent the morning moving boxes, discovering old photographs she'd forgotten she'd saved. Her and Sarah, arms around each other's waists, drunk on cheap wine and the delusion that friendship could survive anything.

The truth was, Sarah hadn't betrayed her with some unforgivable act. She'd simply drifted away, gradually replaced by new friends, new priorities, a life that didn't include Maya at its center. The way people do. The way everyone eventually does.

A cat darted past the salon window, sleek and gray, plastered to its thin frame by the downpour. Maya watched it press beneath an awning, shaking water from its whiskers with that particular vehemence only animals possessed. She thought about the stray that had been showing up at her back door, leaving dead mice as offerings. Small, bloody gifts on the welcome mat.

"All done," Sarah said, stepping back.

Maya studied her reflection. Strangers stared back—sharp features, eyes that looked older than thirty-four, a vulnerability she'd spent years hiding. She looked like someone starting over. Like someone who'd finally stopped waiting for things to get better and started making them different.

"It's good," she said, surprising herself. "Really good."

"Maya—" Sarah began, something soft and regretful in her voice.

"Don't." Maya stood up, reached for her umbrella. "Sometimes things just end. That's all."

She left without paying, without looking back. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The gray cat was gone. Her phone buzzed again—another reminder, another vitamin. She switched it off and stepped into the wet street, not checking the weather report, not checking anything at all. The water would rise or it wouldn't. She would rebuild the basement or she wouldn't. Some things you controlled, and some things controlled you, and the trick was figuring out which was which before it was too late.