Chlorine Dreams and Plastic Promises

I’m standing in a pool that costs more per month than my first apartment, draped in an overpriced blue sheet because the air conditioning is set to 'Arctic Tundra' and I refuse to shiver for aesthetics.
He told me this weekend would be a ‘soul-cleansing retreat.’ Please. In Tokyo, soul-cleansing usually involves three days of silence and eating raw kale while staring at a rock garden designed by someone who’s never been outside their office in Roppongi.
But as I lean against the cold concrete wall, feeling the water cling to my skin like a second thought, I realize his cliché was almost effective. He didn't bring me here to save me; he brought me here because he knows exactly which version of silence makes me stop talking about work emails at dinner.
There is something subtly predatory and yet deeply tender in how the light hits this water—like we’re both suspended in a blue vacuum where deadlines don’t exist. I close my eyes, not out of peace, but because it's easier to pretend he actually understands me when I can't see him checking his phone.
Still, as his hand finds mine under the surface—cold fingers meeting warm skin—I feel that annoying little spark in my chest. It’s a romantic cliché, sure. But for one afternoon in this overpriced basin of serenity, I might just let myself believe it.

Editor: Sharp Anna