XX. The Girl Who Sank Beneath the Surface

At school, she drifted. In the hallways, in her thoughts. She was always somewhere else entirely.

At home, her father’s voice was a steady background hum of disappointment, words thrown like stones that she was too sluggish to dodge. She didn’t flinch anymore when they hit.

Her job at the supermarket was just noise and light: the click of the cash register, the buzz of the fluorescent bulbs, the smell of antibacterial sanitizer on her hands. Her days were an endless stream of monotony.

Only the nights mattered. That’s when she came alive.

The first time I entered the bathroom—Tristan's bathroom—the tub was already half full. She stood beside it, watching the water rise, her eyes unfocused and distant.

She stepped in fully clothed. The water embraced her as it steadily rose over her arms, her chest, her throat. She took one breath, exhaled ever so calmly, and sank.

When she surfaced again some time later, her breathing was slow and measured. Her hair clung to her cheeks like ribbons of ink. Her expression was peaceful. Radiant, even.

Night after night, I watched her do it. Sometimes I sat in the corner. Sometimes I walked slow circles around the tub, tracing ripples with my gaze as she drifted below. It quickly became our ritual. Hers to drown. Mine to witness.

I'll admit, I was captivated by her, drawn down with her, as though I'd entered some holy rite of passage. It was a purity and peace that existed in only the rarest versions of her.

One night, she stayed under longer than usual. Too long.

The ripples stilled. Bubbles rose, then stopped.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached in, grabbed the fabric of her shirt, and pulled her out. Her body hit the tile with a heavy slap. Water pooled beneath her.

She didn’t move.

I pressed my palms against her chest. Once. Twice. Again. She gasped suddenly, coughing, choking on air and water, her eyes wide and wild.

I didn't realize I had been holding my breath as well.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. I could smell her fear.

“Someone who shouldn’t be here,” I snapped angrily. But it wasn’t her I was chastising. It was myself.

She sat up. “You…you saved me.”

“No,” I barked. “I stopped you. There’s a difference.”

I felt my temper rising, and it surprised me. I’d never interfered in her death before. Never cared enough to. And that I hadn’t even thought before I acted…well, that’s what concerned me most.

Before she could say another word, I stood and left.

The next night, the house was silent again.

She filled the tub. Then closed the door. Locked it this time.

But I was already there, sitting in the corner, hidden from her sight, as usual.

She stepped into the water and began her ritual. Sinking once, twice, three times. Each time surfacing slower, eyes dimmer, breaths shorter.

The fourth time, she didn’t come up.

I watched the ripples fade.

Eventually, I rose and approached the tub. Her hair floated like dark silk around her face, her features softened by the water’s shimmer. She looked beautifully serene. Finally free.

I stared down at her for a long time.

When I eventually left, the house was still quiet except for the sound of the faucet dripping into the full basin—a steady, hollow sound like that of a ticking time bomb.

For the first time since I began my mission, a sinking dread settled into me. I could feel it coursing beneath my veins. Somewhere deep inside of me, something was beginning to unravel.

The search continues.

M.

Up Next: The Girl Who Prayed Too Hard