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Underwater, it’s quiet.

Light blue, pale green, misty grey, transparent – the quiet envelops her when her lithe body submerges, washing away thoughts, erasing faces, settling vibrations, dulling the pain.

Underwater, her arms stretched forward, her legs a dolphin’s tale, she swims close to the bottom, observing small cracks in the pool’s floor, or gliding over white shells on the ocean’s sand, the air bubbles escaping to the surface in intervals.

Twenty seconds, forty, sixty.

When the air almost bursts her lungs, she comes up, inhales greedily, and dives right back. It’s safe there, in the vastness that doesn’t obey others but is tamed by her, the only place where she can be her true self, unafraid and peaceful, in love.

As she dove for her second stretch two months earlier, she felt something open up inside, and a notion flowed in, like a fish settling under a coral: I’m in love. She lost the air and came up to the surface midway, startling the old lady in the next lane. She apologized, and continued freestyle, her arms plowing the water in rhythmic succession, a breath on the left, three strokes, a breath on the right, three strokes, a steady geyser at her feet, a somersault turn, repeat.

She was the last person to leave the pool that night. Her arms hung like willow tree branches and she couldn’t push herself up to get out, using the staircase instead.

She didn’t tell anyone, not even her best friend. She couldn’t tell him either.

Everything stayed the same. She went home, cooked dinner, asked her son to set the table. Her husband noted how quiet she was that night, but she blamed the swimming and the extra wine after.

She goes swimming every evening now. Only under water she lets herself be the lover that she is. Every stroke is his, every turn is hers, and every bubble is theirs.

The water keeps her secret; washes over the want; quiets the heart.

She could stay underwater forever.

She doesn’t need to breathe, if she feels the pressure of the currents – his hands – against her sides; listens to his words, unsaid, flowing over her; sees the blue – his eyes – all around. She’d swim day and night, until she reached the shore, on which they could walk together. But they won’t. So she swims in his eyes, his smile, his hands, until she almost drowns, then comes up for air, returns for more.

His love is underwater.

Every night, she swims in it.

It’s quiet there. He doesn’t know.

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