The pool always smelled like chlorine and old metal.
Maristela noticed it every time she walked in, even though everyone else seemed to stop registering it after the first few weeks. Maybe that was the problem. She noticed things she wasn't supposed to. Sounds. Silences. The way people's smiles fell apart when they thought no one was looking.
She slips her bag into the locker and changes without looking in the mirror. The mirrors in the girls' locker room are unforgiving—too bright, too honest. She doesn't need to see herself to know what she looks like today: tired eyes, hair pulled back too tight, shoulders tense, as if she's bracing for something that hasn't happened yet.
Just practice, she tells herself. Nothing else.
Swimming is the one place where her body listens to her. Where it doesn't flinch at raised voices or sudden movements. Water doesn't grab. It doesn't linger. It doesn't hurt you unless you let it.
That's what she's always believed.
The coach blows the whistle, sharp and commanding, and the team lines up along the edge of the pool. Maristela takes her place without thinking, toes curling slightly over the lip of the tile. The water below reflects the overhead lights in broken, shimmering lines.
It looks deep today.
She shakes the thought away.
"Laps," the coach calls. "Endurance set. No breaks."
Groans ripple through the group. Mireya says nothing. Endurance is her strength. It always has been. She slips into the water cleanly, barely making a splash, and starts swimming.
Stroke. Breathe. Pull.
The world narrows to rhythm.
Her thoughts drift the way they always do when she swims—backward, uninvited. A flash of raised voices at home. A slammed door. The memory of being told to stop overreacting when she couldn't catch her breath.
She pushes harder, as she can outrun it.
Halfway through the set, something changes.
It's subtle at first. A heaviness in her limbs. The water feels thicker, like it's resisting her movements more than it should. She adjusts her stroke, frowns slightly.
You're tired, she thinks. That's all.
She turns at the wall and pushes off again.
That's when her chest tightens.
Not the familiar burn of exertion. This is sharper. Wrong. Her lungs refuse to expand fully, like they've forgotten how. She tries to inhale and gets only half a breath, the air stopping short.
Panic sparks.
She slows, lifting her head—but the movement throws her off balance. Water rushes into her mouth, harsh and salty with chemicals. She coughs, sputters, tries to tread water.
Her arms feel weak.
Stop, she tells herself. Stop panicking.
The pool seems quieter suddenly. Distant. The sounds of splashing and shouting fade into a dull hum. Her heartbeat grows loud in her ears, pounding, frantic.
A memory surfaces without permission.
Hands on her shoulders.Water running.A voice saying, Don't make a scene.
Her vision blurs.
She sinks.
Not fast. Not dramatically.
Just… downward.
The water closes over her head, and instead of terror, there's a strange, terrifying calm. The pressure wraps around her like an embrace. The noise disappears completely.
For a moment—just one—she doesn't fight it.
It would be easier, a thought whispers. To stay.
Something brushes her ankle.
Not a hand.
Not a rope.
A current.
It curls around her leg gently, steadying her, lifting her just enough that her face breaks the surface. She gasps, dragging in air like it's the first time she's ever done it.
Strong arms hook under her shoulders and yank her upward.
"Maristela! Hey—hey, stay with me!"
The coach's voice cuts through the haze. She's hauled out of the pool, coughing violently, water pouring from her mouth as she curls onto her side on the tile.
The world rushes back in—noise, light, people shouting her name.
She lies there shaking, lungs burning, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
"I—" she tries to speak, but it comes out as another cough.
The coach kneels beside her, eyes sharp with concern. "What happened?"
Maristela stares at the pool.
The surface ripples innocently, disturbed only by the wake of other swimmers who have stopped to watch.
Nothing is touching her now.
"I don't know," she says finally, her voice hoarse. "I just… couldn't breathe."
They call it a panic attack.
That's what the nurse says. What the coach nods along with. What everyone seems relieved to label it as.
Maristela accepts the explanation because it's familiar. Because it fits the shape of her life.
Still, later that night, alone in her room, she fills a glass with water and watches her reflection ripple across the surface.
For just a second—so brief she could pretend it didn't happen—the water trembles.
It recognizes her.
She sets the glass down carefully and backs away.
"I'm fine," she whispers to the empty room.
The water settles.
But the feeling doesn't.
They sent her home early.
That part embarrasses her more than the incident itself. She sits on the bench in the locker room, wrapped in a towel that smells like bleach, while the rest of the team finishes practice. The walls echo with laughter and splashing, life going on without her as if nothing happened.
She keeps her head down.
The nurse's words loop in her head: Panic attack. Stress-related. Happens more often than people realize.
Maristela nods along at the time. She's good at that, too—agreeing without really agreeing. Letting adults settle on explanations that keep things simple.
Still, her hands won't stop trembling.
She presses her palms against her thighs, feeling the solid reassurance of muscle and bone. Ground yourself. That's what the counselor once told her. Name five things you can see. Four you can touch. Three you can hear.
She can hear the pool.
Even from here, behind concrete walls and lockers, she hears it. The low, constant slosh of water moving, filtered and cycled and alive in a way that feels uncomfortably attentive.
Stop, she thinks. You're projecting.
At home, the house is quiet in the way it always is during the afternoon—too quiet, like it's holding its breath. Maristela drops her bag by the door and heads straight for the bathroom, shedding damp clothes along the way.
She turns on the shower and stands under the spray without stepping in.
The water hits the tile, splashing up in fine mist. The sound fills the room, loud and enclosing. Her chest tightens reflexively, but she forces herself to breathe through it.
You're in control, she tells herself. It's just water.
She steps in.
The warmth is comforting at first. Her muscles loosen as the spray hits her shoulders, sliding down her back. She closes her eyes and lets herself lean into it, just a little.
That's when the memory hits.
Not the bathtub this time.
The pool.
The moment before she sank.
The strange calm.
Her breath stutters. She opens her eyes quickly, grounding herself in the sight of white tile and shampoo bottles and her own hands, trembling slightly as she braces them against the wall.
The water shifts.
She freezes.
It's subtle. Almost nothing. The spray changes direction for half a second, angling toward her chest instead of falling straight down. It feels deliberate, like a hand adjusting its grip.
Her heart slams against her ribs.
"No," she whispers. "That didn't—"
The water resumes its normal pattern instantly, cascading down like it always has. Heat. Steam. Nothing out of place.
She shuts off the shower so fast the silence rings.
Wrapped in a towel, she sits on the edge of the tub and presses her hands together hard enough to hurt.
You imagined it.You were tired.You almost drowned.
Any of those explanations should be enough.
Later, she fills a glass at the sink and carries it to her room, setting it carefully on her desk. She doesn't know why she does it. Only that she needs to look at it again.
The surface is perfectly still.
She stares at it for a long time.
"I'm not afraid of you," she says quietly, feeling ridiculous the moment the words leave her mouth.
The water doesn't move.
Her phone buzzes, startling her. A message from her mother—short, clipped.
—Coach called. You okay?
Maristela types back quickly.
—Yeah. Just overdid it. I'm fine.
She sends it before she can think too hard about whether it's true.
That night, she dreams of water again.
But this time, she isn't drowning.
She's standing at the bottom of a vast, empty ocean floor, water stretching endlessly above her. Light filters down in wavering bands. She breathes easily, calmly.
Around her, shadows flicker—shapes just out of focus. Voices murmur, too distant to understand.
One word rises above the rest, clear as a bell.
Remember.
She wakes with a gasp, lungs full, heart racing.
Her bedside glass of water ripples.
Slowly.
In perfect time with her breathing.
Maristela reaches out, then stops, hand hovering inches away.
"I don't want to know," she whispers.
The ripples fade.
But something inside her has already begun to listen.
Maristela doesn't tell anyone about the glass.
She wakes up the next morning with the memory of it still too vivid—how the water responded to her breathing, how it felt less like a coincidence and more like recognition. By the time she swings her legs off the bed, she's already decided what she'll do with that information.
Nothing.
She pours the water down the sink, watching it spiral away, and avoids looking too closely as it disappears down the drain. The pipes groan softly, a low, almost resentful sound.
"Just plumbing," she mutters.
School resumes like nothing is wrong. Teachers talk about upcoming exams. Friends complain about practice and homework and how boring everything is. Maristela slides back into her seat in the world easily, like she was never gone.
That's what scares her most.
At swim practice, she doesn't get back in the water.
The coach insists she sit out for the week, citing protocol and concern, but Mireya doesn't argue. She perches on the bleachers with a towel over her shoulders and watches instead, legs pulled tight against her chest.
From here, the pool looks different.
Not threatening. Not inviting.
Attentive.
She notices things she's never noticed before—the way the water shifts when certain swimmers approach, the way ripples overlap and cancel each other out, forming brief, impossible patterns. When someone dives in hard, the splash feels violent, disruptive.
When someone moves gently, the water seems to accommodate them.
You're projecting again, she thinks.
Still, she doesn't miss how the water calms when she stands near the edge. How the surface smooths, almost imperceptibly, as if anticipating her return.
A girl from her team—Lena—plops down beside her halfway through practice. "You look like you're planning something," she says lightly.
Maristela blinks. "What?"
Lena shrugs. "You've got that stare. Like you're listening to music no one else can hear."
Maristela forces a laugh. "I wish."
Lena glances at the pool. "You'll be back in tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah," Maristela says, too quickly. "Of course."
The word tomorrow sits heavy in her chest.
"I don't know," she admits.
Lena hesitates, then nudges her shoulder gently. "Coach was saying… maybe you could try staying in the dorms for a bit. You know. New environment. Make friends. Maybe heal something?"
Heal something.
Maristela doesn't answer.
She watches the water instead.
That night, at home, Maristela sits at the kitchen table while her mother rinses dishes in the sink. The sound of running water fills the space between them.
"They think it might help," her mother says, not turning around. "Being closer to school. Less pressure."
Maristela traces the grain of the table with her fingertip. "What if it doesn't?"
Her mother finally looks at her then. Not impatient. Just tired.
"Then we try something else," she says. "You don't have to get better all at once."
The words surprise Maristela enough that she looks up.
After a long moment, she nods. "Okay."
The decision feels less like a choice and more like letting go of a door she was already leaning against.
That night, she packs slowly.
She fills a glass of water and leaves it on her desk while she folds clothes. The water remains still.
When she turns away, it ripples.
She doesn't look back.
The dorm room smells unfamiliar.
Detergent. Old wood. Something faintly electrical.
Maristela sets her bag down and stands just inside the door, taking it in. Two beds. Two desks. A narrow window overlooking the back field.
She chooses the bed nearest the wall.
Her roommate hasn't arrived yet.
She unpacks with careful precision, lining her things up neatly. Control is easier when it's visible.
The door opens behind her.
Mireya turns.
The girl in the doorway pauses, like she hadn't expected someone else to already be there.
"Oh," she says quietly.
There's a faint smell of smoke about her—not sharp, not fresh. Old. Lingering.
"Hi," Maristela says.
"Hi. I'm Asha."
"Maristela."
They exchange names like fragile objects.
Asha sets her bag down on the other bed. Neither of them comments on anything else.
They move around each other with distance and courtesy. No questions. No explanations. Just shared space.
When Maristela fills a glass of water at the sink, she's acutely aware of Asha behind her. The water behaves.
Asha notices her hesitation.
"You don't have to explain," she says suddenly, softly.
Maristela stiffens. "Explain what?"
Asha shrugs, already looking away. "Nothing."
The lights flicker once.
Neither of them laughed.
That night, they lie on opposite sides of the room, backs turned, breathing carefully. Not sleeping. Not talking.
Strangers.
But no longer alone.