Breathe

I feel like I’m drowning.

But it doesn’t feel like an accident. It’s not like I lost my balance on some slippery rocks or fell out of a boat that got steered to one side just a bit too sharp.

It’s almost like I saw carnivorous waves forming in the distance while I waded at the shore, and I'm willingly swimming into their belly instead of turning back to sunny land.

My alarm interrupted a dream about my high school crush, Troy Simmons, bumping into me at the grocery mart and confessing his 15-year longing to see me again after moving out of state in sophomore year. His cart had knocked into mine while I was bent over in the sugar-free column of the ice cream freezer. I caught a movie-worthy slo-mo of myself straightening from my crouched stance, a frozen cloud of dairy-tinged air framing my body, and my hair blowing in nonexistent wind. Troy leaned in for what I expected to be a hey-pal-nice-to-see-you-after-all-these-years embrace, but instead it turned in to a kiss so fiery that I could feel the fudge pops melting through the box that was still in my hand.

And then I woke up.

I spent the better portion of my shower replaying that dream in my head, trying to remember the details for some kind of false reassurance that I could be desirable to someone again. With each passing minute I felt like I could remember fewer and fewer pieces of that frozen-aisle romance scene; by the time I was standing at the mirror in my towel, I could barely recall how it felt to be embraced by anyone, real or dream.

My last bit of curl cream spit out of its tube in so many directions that only a quarter size made it into my hand. I scrunched the ends of my hair with the goop and threw the tube in the trash, leaving the rogue droplets to get crusty on my bureau, vanity chair, and floor where I could chip them off the next morning.

I gathered a box of cereal, a carton of milk, and bowl from the kitchen and made my way to the living room couch. I slumped into the cushions, using the ottoman as my chef’s table to concoct my breakfast. It was unlike me to take the time to eat anything before leaving for work. Maybe this was a sign that things were getting better without me even realizing it; something in me just felt more alive, full of fresh air, ready to take on the world again.

On the way to work I started to create a to-do list in my head. I thought of all the things that I told myself the day before I would start doing, holding my team accountable and being the “boss” that I was expected to be. I remember once when Neil told me that if I was half the boss at work that I was at home, I would have the best store in the entire country.

He was probably right.

At every stoplight I started practicing my conversations out loud.

“Ramon, we have to talk about your sales results for the month…”

“Holly, you didn’t take your meal break again yesterday. This is starting to become a pattern…”

“Sam, can you talk me through why you completed the table resets without the proper planograms…”

I sat down at my desk, tidied the paperwork that was left by the closing team and logged into my email. I spent half an hour scrolling through conference call invites and compliance reports before the rest of the openers started trickling in, popping their heads in to greet me for the day while I mapped out the daily planner.

Holly came into the office to gather her event planning sheets, making small talk about her commute and the fact that she forgot her avocado quinoa salad at home. This was the perfect opportunity.

All of my preparations for the day started to float from my head, as if someone had unzipped my scalp to release everything inside.

“If you want me to grab you something next door when I take my lunch, just let me know,” I offered, treating her like a victim of her own forgetfulness when I would be the one to lose my job if she didn’t start taking her legally required breaks.

That drowning feeling is back.

The air is chilly and smells like dirt. Leaves float down from the sky like the tears falling down my cheek. I create a salty puddle around myself, and my feet slowly disappear, next my shins. My face gets muddy as my fingertips create ripples where they meet their own reflection.

That night, I made Neil’s favorite for dinner: chicken alfredo with broccoli—extra garlic. The smell reminded me of him even more than the Polo that was still sitting on the sink of the master bathroom. I managed three bites, took a large gulp of Rosé, and used my fork to twirl the remaining pasta in circles for nearly ten minutes before bringing my plate to the end of the counter and swiping what was left into the garbage.

I’m drowning still.

This time it’s ice cold. It’s like I’m stuck beneath the frozen surface of a pond, watching the warped figures of happy people skating through life without a care. Their muffled laughs make me long to hear one last joke. I wish I could break through but treading beneath the ice leaves me void of energy to even try. I can feel the weight of water pooling inside of me.

When I finally got in to bed for the night, I laid on my right side for what felt like hours—days—with my right hand stretched out over Neil’s side. In our first apartment, I always slept on the left side of the bed, because it was furthest from the window, and Neil was always proposing that if someone broke in through the balcony that I’d be safer this way. At the house we didn’t have to worry about the windows, but my new side of the bed would be the one furthest from the door in case someone politely used the delegated entrance to come into our home without welcome and decided to peak in on us while we talked in our sleep and secretly passed gas.

Now if someone walked in on me in the middle of the night, they might find me sitting up in bed staring back at them with baggy eyes, holding a damp pillow at my chest.

I rolled onto my back, gazing upwards through the skylight that had been one of the greatest selling points of the house for us, and that would probably be one of the most inviting features for the next owners. The sky was so clear that the edges of the stars didn’t even blur; after a few minutes I made out the Little Dipper, or what could have been any random configuration of stars tricking my eye.

I thought about our first date, when we shared our first kiss in the park gazebo just before midnight on my twenty-third birthday. Neil had planned the most elaborate date I had ever been on in my life—not that there had been that many others to compare it to. When I told him it had been the most special birthday I could remember so far, he told me that he hoped it would remain one of the most exceptional for years to come, especially if he couldn’t be the one to celebrate the rest of my birthdays with me.

Maybe it was okay for me to let someone else try to top that most exceptional day.

I am almost done.

But there is a crack in the surface. I can feel the warmth of the sun through the frosted shell of pond—a ray of sunshine is beaming straight to me, penetrating the ice like a lifeline that I can reach out and physically touch.

Strangers laughs become clear. I can make out the punch line.

And when I try to breathe, my lungs fill with air.