Julia plucked the white orchid out from the dirt in the cracks of the sidewalks and put it under her nose. It smelt of chlorine, of long evenings of swimming in pools, sore arms and flip turns, days turning over each other like waterfalls. Her ankles ached like when she did the breaststroke, and she held the flower underneath her shirt when she rode the bus, the petals rubbing smooth against her chest.

She swayed the orchid above her head while lying in bed, watching the petals dance with the wind. Then, the top of the orchid spewed out water like a garden hose. Her whole room flooded, her poster of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club curling.

She floated through the water, watching her empty plastic bottles bob,  then pass through the ceiling. Everything—her laptop, her cellphone, her empty take-out boxes—drifted up and away. She leaned back, floated in the thick water, and relaxed.

Fourteen years passed in her mind. All swimming. Caves appeared in the middle of her carpet, and she found sea turtles and algae. On other days, she was swimming between blue and yellow lane lines, hitting them with her forearm when she did the backstroke. She did that every weekday as a kid. She craved it when she left for college, the taste of chlorinated water always on the edge of her tongue. She had it back. Splintered rays of sunlight broke through her windows. Outside, there were grey pillars of buildings, throbbing lights and laughing people with clanking glasses from nightclubs, parks with leaves that shrugged with the wind.

She reached out to grab the handle, but for the first time, she felt the weight of water drag her down. The room was grimy and tight. She’d been in water for so long. Out there, where fountains spewed and rain trickled down storm drains, she saw people and faces and smiles. She saw them all blend together into a mass, walking down streets, laughing and crying and holding onto each other. Her chest ached like she’d swallowed water, choking hard, as she watched the world move on without her. The sun rose into the sky, hid behind grey clouds, then disappeared past the horizon. One face passed her window, then another, then another. They never looked at her. All she could do was watch, hands rubbing against the glass, watch the city move without her.

She was going to breathe.

She pulled the orchid out from under her shirt. She plucked one petal, and the water lowered an inch. Another, and another, until it was a stem. The water drained. She looked out at the window, at the sprinklers on the edge of the sidewalk. She stuffed the stem in her back pocket, the memories of swimming and childhood, and went out to make dry memories.