Submerge

F O R W A R D

Earned it.

The words echo all the way home.

That night, I open Ethan's message and read it three times before answering. 

It's something simple, he asks what colour hoodie he should wear to the swim clinic so I "don't look like he kidnapped a minor." I reply red. He sends a GIF of someone doing jazz hands.

I don't laugh.

Ethan shows up the next morning with a tray of matcha donuts and a bandana tied like he's about to lead a rebellion. 

He walks me from the locker room to the deck, keeps his hand light on my back.

"You good?" he asks.

I nod. "Yeah."

He doesn't ask again.

The swim clinic runs two hours. I don't get in the water. I blow the whistle, correct a kid's elbow angle, demonstrate pull technique with a rubber band and too many hand gestures. I don't flinch when someone splashes me by accident.

Mostly, I don't flinch.

Afterward, Ethan leans against the vending machine while I towel my hair dry.

"You looked like a coach out there," he says, tapping his foot to the soda machine hum.

I nod. "Felt like one. Almost."

"You wanna grab lunch?"

I want to say yes. I should say yes.

But the words catch.

"I've got an assignment I should finish." My voice is steady, but I can feel the lie stretching thin.

He doesn't push. "Later?"

"Later."

He leaves with a wave and a smile.

I sit on the locker bench ten minutes longer than necessary, staring at the floor until the sweat dries on my skin and the smell of chlorine starts to curdle.

On the way home, I stop by the gas station. I don't need anything. I just go.

But then I see him.

A guy from two years ago. 

Hoodie pulled low, backpack slouched, tapping the counter with that twitchy, too-fast rhythm. The kind of guy who knows what you want before you figure it out yourself.

We lock eyes.

He raises a brow. "Decker?"

I don't answer, but I don't walk away either.

Outside, he follows. Says, "You need something?"

I shake my head. Say no. Say I'm good.

But my hands won't stop shaking, and my breath is shallow, and I remember the last time I didn't want to remember anything.

He doesn't try to convince me. Just shrugs, pulls a bag from his hoodie pocket, holds it like it's neutral.

"You know where to find me."

And just like that, I do.

Twenty minutes later, the bag is zipped into the back pocket of my hoodie.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at it like it might blink first.

I tell myself it's just in case. I tell myself it's a test I won't fail.

I tell myself I'm still doing okay.