A Fever in the Blue Silence

The water doesn't just surround me; it consumes me, a heavy, liquid velvet that presses against my skin until I can’t tell where I end and the blue begins. They call this healing, but it feels like a slow-motion surrender to gravity and grace—a rebellion of the body against the frantic noise of the city above.
Above, the world is loud and jagged—neon lights bleeding into wet asphalt, people moving like clockwork machines in their desperate race for meaning. But here, in my private cathedral of bubbles and brine, time curdles into something sweet and suffocating. I watch your shadow dance on the surface, a flickering ghost of the man who haunts my waking hours.
You are the warmth I can’t reach, the pulse that makes this cold immersion feel like a fever dream. My lungs ache with the effort of holding back the truth: that I would rather drown in this silence than live one second without the friction of your touch. Every bubble is a word I never dared to say aloud. Let me stay suspended here—caught between the drowning and the divine—until the pressure becomes love, and love becomes my only oxygen.

Editor: The Escape Plan