Underwater, the air between them starts to change.
At first it’s warm. Then heavy. Then almost used up. Every breath they pass back and forth comes thinner than the last, hotter than it should, like something they both know they should stop sharing — and still can’t let go.
Their bodies stay pressed together, stomachs rising and collapsing out of rhythm now. One still has control. The other is starting to lose it. And suddenly the shared breath doesn’t feel generous anymore.
It feels like a competition.
A quiet, dangerous game to see who gets the last mouthful of air. Who holds on longer. Who breaks first. Who takes one more inhale when there may not be enough left to give back.
The water around them gets darker. The surface feels farther away. The air is warm, dirty, almost gone.
And for one suspended second, neither of them knows who is going to rise first…
or who is going to need to be pulled back from the bottom.
