They told her she couldn’t enter a conversation or a relationship or a room without stepping slowly, without nervously reaching into the darkness and feeling around for something to anchor her. They told her that it wasn’t that she was careful. Being careful made sense. They told her it was because she was afraid. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was fear. Maybe she’d just been telling herself it was smart—logical even—that just about everything made her feel terrified: an eager smile from someone she only kind of knew, a call she wasn’t expecting, an awkward moment or mistake or regret from the past that she was reliving again. Everything made her head feel so loud, so full of voices that she only faintly recognized, all arguing and shaming her until they were all she could hear.

They were all gathered now, all sneaking looks at her. She felt jittery and uncomfortable and immediately scolded herself for feeling that way. She’d sat in these chairs and talked to these people more times than she could count. Since she was a child. Most of the people that weren’t family probably considered her a friend. Or at least as close to a friend as someone could be considered here. She wasn’t sure what she considered them. None of them had any idea about what she was about to do, and she knew that if she said something to even one of the few people she trusted, she’d never go through with it.

It wasn’t even planned, really. More of a stray thought that she’d fixated on while pretending to be engaged in a conversation earlier in the night until it became something more than a plan. It was like she needed to be somebody other than herself, or to be a version of herself that she couldn’t control, or a version of herself that she didn’t want to control. Maybe it wasn’t about control at all. Maybe it was about not caring about control, not caring about shame or guilt.

As the people moved outside, then finally cleared the aisle runner to take their seats, she slipped upstairs unnoticed. The music started and heads turned as she straddled the stone railing. Somebody screamed. When she plunged into the pool below, wearing a dress that everybody knew cost more than her part of the family could really afford anymore, she felt the cool water on her skin, she felt the destruction of expectations, she felt warmth where her fear used to be, she felt her air begin to run out, and finally she felt calm. When she rose, gently breaking the surface of the water, tulle clinging to her neck, the voices were gone. All she could hear was water lapping against the side of the pool, the silence of finishing gasps.

– Brenden Layte