What We Carry in Water

The padel court was empty at 6 AM, which was exactly how Elena wanted it. She and Marcus had played every Tuesday and Thursday for seven years, a ritual that survived job changes, her mother's death, and now — she glanced at her phone — the third round of chemotherapy. Her doctor called it maintenance. The port in her chest called it something else.

Marcus arrived with his usual energy, somehow still intact after six months of hospitals and insurance battles. 'Ready?' he asked, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.

She wasn't. But she nodded anyway.

Two games in, her lung capacity gave out. She sat on the bench, oxygen catching, while Marcus pretended to check his phone. The silence between them had grown sharp-edged lately. They'd stopped pretending things were fine, but neither could quite say what they really were.

'Made you that smoothie this morning,' he said. 'Spinach, ginger, that protein powder you like.'

'Thank.' She closed her eyes. 'Even the cat wouldn't drink it.'

'Barnaby has sophisticated tastes.' He sat beside her, their shoulders barely touching. 'Also, I bought those vitamins. The ones the nutritionist recommended.'

She opened her eyes. The court blurred. 'Marcus. You know there's no evidence those —'

'I know.' He stood up abruptly. 'I'm going to the pool. Swimming. You coming?'

The indoor pool at their gym was always warm, too warm, smelling of chlorine and forced cheer. Elena lowered herself into the water, letting it buoy her weightless. Her body, with its scars and ports and betrayals, felt manageable here. Marcus dove in beside her, surfacing slick and seal-like.

They swam laps in companionable silence. She watched him from underwater — the way his arms cut through the blue, how he moved with an ease she'd forgotten. When they were young, they'd been competitive. Who could swim faster, climb higher, live harder. Now she just watched his form and felt something like gratitude, something like grief.

Afterwards, they sat on the pool deck, towels wrapped around them like armor.

'You know,' she said, 'they adjusted my protocol. Again.'

He turned to her slowly. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes.

'Two more rounds. Then scans.' She swallowed. 'If it's still there, we discuss options.'

'If it's gone?'

'Then we discuss the rest of our lives.' She reached for his hand. His palm was warm, lifeline-deep. 'I'm sorry I've been —'

'You don't have to —'

'I do. I've been so focused on surviving, I forgot I'm not doing it alone.' She squeezed his fingers. 'Even Barnaby's lonely. He slept on your pillow last night.'

Marcus smiled. 'He always liked me better.' He paused. 'So. Padel next Tuesday?'

'See how I feel.' She stood up, water dripping from her suit onto the concrete. 'But Marcus?'

'Yeah?'

'Thank you for the smoothie.'

He looked up at her, and for the first time in months, she saw something like hope in his eyes. 'I'll make you another one tomorrow,' he said. 'With extra spinach.'

She laughed, and it didn't hurt quite as much as usual.