Instead, she opened a notebook—the blank one she had been saving for something important—and wrote at the top of the first page:
She sat up and looked out the window. The pool cover was back on—she had wrestled it into place before stumbling inside at 1:30 AM. The backyard looked ordinary. Boring, even. No trace of the magic that had happened there just hours ago. emily 18 alone in the pool at nightrar
The pool in the backyard had been covered for most of October, but the first week of November had brought an unseasonable heat wave—humid, electric, the kind of weather that makes your skin feel like it’s remembering something your brain forgot. She had peeled back the vinyl cover that afternoon, just to see the water. It was clear. Still. Waiting.
Every light was off except the one above the stove. Through the sliding glass door, she could see the kitchen where she had learned to bake cookies with her grandmother, the hallway where she had taken her first steps, the living room where her father had taught her to play chess. So many memories packed into a structure of wood and drywall. And yet, in two years, she would probably live somewhere else. A dorm room. An apartment. A city she had only visited once. The cat ignored her
A single tear escaped the corner of her eye and merged with the pool water. She didn't wipe it away. There was no one here to see it. That, she realized, was perhaps the most terrifying and liberating thing about being alone: the freedom to feel without editing. She flipped over and started swimming—not laps, nothing disciplined, just movement for the sake of movement. Breaststroke to the ladder. Backstroke to the floating thermometer. She ducked under the surface and opened her eyes. The chlorine stung, but the underwater world was beautiful in its distortion: the blue tiles blurring into azure mosaics, her own pale legs stretching out like a dreamer’s limbs, the LED lights casting long shadows that danced along the bottom.
