The pool remembers what we don’t say

It’s 1:17 a.m. and the empty lap lanes are holding their breath. I just walked past the shallow end, and the water still had the ghost of a stroke—ripples that didn’t fade, like something was trying to finish a thought. You’d think silence would be nothing, but it’s not. It’s full. Full of the way the last swimmer’s hands broke the surface at 9:43 p.m., full of the sound of my own shoes on wet tile. The pool doesn’t forget. It just waits for someone to listen.