A peaceful silence envelops me as I descend into the darkness. My eyes lock onto the shimmering bubbles, their surfaces catching the sunlight like tiny mirrors. I reach out—not towards the surface, but toward the bubbles themselves. They weave through my fingers, leaving a trail of fleeting kisses, delicate and bittersweet, as though they know I may never see them again.

The last of my breath escapes my lips. The taste of life vanishes, replaced by the briny sting of salt. I close my eyes, and the sunlight fades, swallowed by the deep.

When I open them again, the sound of running water fills my ears. Soapy bubbles coat my hands, glistening under the warm light of the present.

I blink and glance around. The kitchen is quiet, save for the hum of the dishwasher and the rush of water from the tap. Plates stack precariously beside the sink, a half-empty coffee mug sits forgotten on the counter. The air is thick—not with salt, but with the heavy weight of loneliness.

The bubbles slip through my fingers here too, fragile and fleeting, disappearing before I can hold on to them. I stare at the water pooling in the sink, and the ache in my chest feels the same as it did in the depths of my vision. I’m not drowning in water, but in the vast emptiness of my own reality.

Here in the kitchen, I am still sinking.