I leaned in close and told him I was drowning.
Not metaphorically. Not romantically. Not symbolically.
I was sinking. And I begged him to save me,
because I didn’t know how much longer I could hold my breath.

He looked at me—unbothered.
Placed a hand on my shoulder, like it meant something.
Then said, “Suffering is a blessing. Wear it proudly.
It builds character in those born without any.”

He quoted philosophers. Prophets. Saints.
Their words floated above us like oil on water.
But my ears had already surrendered to the crashing tide.
I heard nothing but waves.

“What is it you want me to do?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Embrace it,” he said, without pause.
“Lower your head. Let the water pass through you.
“Do as I command, and you’ll be free of the weight.”

My legs were numb from the cold.
The water had crept past my waist, then my chest.
I had no option but to oblige.
There was no land behind me, no future ahead.

The surface met my mouth. My nostrils.
My body tried to resist, flailing against itself.
But my soul had already gone somewhere quieter.

Still, I opened my eyes one final time.
But he had been long gone.
My savior. My witness. My executioner.

No hand reached for me. No voice called my name.
Only the water remained—silent, all-knowing.

A soul adrift in salt and silence,
forgotten even by the sea that swallowed me.