The water in the bathtub was too still, reflecting only the dull glow of the nightlight from the hallway.
**The water in the bathtub was too still, reflecting only the dull glow of the nightlight from the hallway.**
The water in the bathtub was too still, reflecting only the dull glow of the nightlight from the hallway. My fingers, pruney and cold, brushed against the porcelain, tracing the dried-up ring where the water had once met the air, days or weeks ago.
It was late, or early, I couldn’t tell. The house was quiet, a heavy, velvet quiet that seemed to press in on my eardrums. My husband was asleep, his breathing a steady rhythm I could almost feel through the floorboards. I was meant to be asleep too, cocooned in the warmth of our bed, but the sheets had felt like a net tonight.
I sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, my t-shirt clinging damply to my back. The air was thick with the faint, metallic tang of chlorine from the tap, mixed with something else – a musty, forgotten smell that had settled deep into the grout lines. My gaze was fixed on the drain, a small, dark circle that seemed to pull all light into itself.
My mind was a jumble of whispers, a thousand tiny voices arguing, each one presenting its case with chilling clarity. This is it. This is how it ends. The thought felt less like a decision and more like a final sigh, a surrender to the relentless exhaustion that had become my constant companion.
I’d been planning it, in a vague, abstract way, for months. Not with ropes or pills, but with a slow, steady letting go. Skipping meals, ignoring calls, blurring the edges of my days until they bled into an indistinct grey. This bathtub, though, was concrete. It was here, now.
My breath hitched, a dry, raspy sound in the stillness. I could feel the tremor starting in my hands, a quick, almost imperceptible quiver that spread up my arms. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was more like an electrical current, buzzing just beneath my skin, a prelude to something monumental.
---
I slowly reached out, my fingers stretching towards the cold metal of the faucet. The silver gleamed faintly under the sliver of light from the hallway. My knuckles brushed against it, cold and unyielding. The silence in the room stretched, taut as a wire.
Then, my eyes drifted to the small, white rubber duck sitting on the edge of the tub. It was chipped, a small piece of its yellow beak missing. My daughter had left it there after her bath yesterday. I remembered her giggles, the splash of water, the way her tiny hands had clutched it tight, refusing to let go.
A single tear escaped, hot and sudden, tracing a path down my temple. It wasn’t a wave of emotion, not a dramatic sob. It was just one drop, carrying the weight of a thousand tiny moments – the feel of her soft hair against my cheek, the warmth of her hand in mine as we crossed the street, the earnest questions she asked about clouds and stars.
The image of her face, bright and expectant, flickered behind my eyelids. I saw her waking up, finding me gone, searching. The thought was a physical blow, a sudden sharp pain in my chest that eclipsed the dull ache I’d been carrying for so long. It wasn’t a grand revelation, no sudden burst of joy. It was just… her.
My hand, still hovering near the faucet, slowly retracted. I pressed my palms flat against the cold tile floor, feeling the grit of it, the unyielding firmness. It was real. I was real. And she needed me.
I sat there for a long time, the cold seeping into my bones, until the trembling in my hands finally subsided. The voices were still there, a low hum, but they no longer felt like commands. They were just noise, background static against the clear, sharp image of a small, yellow rubber duck and the child who loved it.
That night, I learned that choosing to stay isn't always a triumphant roar; sometimes, it's a quiet, defiant whisper against the overwhelming current. It’s finding one small, tangible anchor in the vast, dark sea, and clinging to it with everything you have.
Feel your feet on the ground.
This story is part of the K-Will Stories archive — an anonymised, content-warned, candle-react grief-and-resilience collection. Reading: 3 min · Theme: survived · Mood: heavy.
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