Chlorine Dreams and Cold Coffee

He told me he’d be here by six. It’s now seven-forty, and the pool water is starting to feel like a cold embrace from an ex who still thinks they have a chance.
I didn't dress up for him; I dressed up for my own reflection in this shimmering turquoise void. The navy jacket hangs off my shoulders not because I’m freezing, but because it feels right—a little bit of armor against the city that never stops talking over itself.
Most people call this 'romance,' waiting by a pool under the harsh glow of stadium lights while their toes dip into chlorine and hope. Me? I just like how my skin glows when I’m not trying to impress anyone but myself.
When he finally arrives, breathless with some polished excuse about traffic or meetings, I won't smile immediately. I’ll let him look at me—really look—until the silence becomes heavy enough to drown in.
He thinks he can buy my forgiveness with a bouquet of lilies and a dinner reservation at that place where you have to book three months in advance. But as I slide into the water, leaving the jacket on the hot concrete like an abandoned skin, I realize what actually heals me isn't his apology—it’s knowing exactly how much power it takes for him to keep waiting while I decide if he’s even worth getting wet.

Editor: Sharp Anna