"Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong
& carry on
'Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven"
The morning starts with a lie.
Sunlight seeps in sideways through the kitchen blinds, the kind of gentle gold that makes everything look more forgiving than it is. The tile is warm under my socks. The fridge hums softly, like it's trying not to wake anyone.
I'm alone in the house.
Nathan left a note on the counter in his handwriting that slants up like it's always hopeful:
Be back in an hour. Balloons, candles, something with confetti. DO NOT touch the cake.
Below that:
Happy Birthday, Mase.
The freezer door is cracked just enough to reveal the top of the cake—a chocolate shell layered over vanilla, blue icing smudged with a plastic number 17.
It's supposed to be thawing.
I close the freezer gently, like I don't want to bruise it.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Mia:
🎉 BIRTHDAY BOY!! You better wear something not tragic today. Ethan says you've got secret plans 👀
Then from Ethan, right under it:
I know you hate surprises. So I'm not planning one. Unless that's the surprise.
I stare at the screen until it dims. Don't answer either.
There's coffee in the pot from hours ago, bitter and half-cold. I drink it anyway. The silence presses against my eardrums like water filling a sealed room.
Upstairs, my laptop is still open on the desk, exactly where I left it last night. The tab for the college acceptance is front and centre.
The little green banner that says Welcome to the Class of 2025 still glows like it means something.
I haven't touched the mouse in ten hours.
Not since the message came.
Not since the video.
The gun is already hidden in my backpack, wrapped in the hoodie from the swim clinic—the one that still smells like chlorine and sugar and Ethan's shampoo. I took it last night, after the house went still. From the same drawer where Jordan keeps the batteries, the manuals, and the things he thinks no one notices.
He'll notice this one.
Eventually.
There's a half-drunk bottle of Bordeaux in the cabinet above the fridge. Jordan bought it last year to celebrate a promotion he never got. It still has the tag from the wine shop: $108. Imported. Aged twelve years.
I don't bother with a corkscrew. Just stuff the bottle in the backpack beside the gun and close the zipper with a sharp breath.
The swimmer charm Ethan gave me—bright, tiny, ridiculous.
YOU ARE READING
Submerge
Teen FictionMason was once a rising star, a record-breaking swimmer with college scouts watching and medals around his neck. But after tragedy cracks his family apart, the boy who once felt at home in the water now flinches at its touch. Haunted by memories he...
