My name is Michael. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I clean pools for wealthy families tucked away behind gates and security cameras, places where service people are meant to be efficient, silent, and invisible. Most days, I am exactly that. Then one Wednesday morning, a married woman stepped out into her backyard, untied her robe, let it fall to the stone patio, and changed everything I thought I understood about boundaries, loneliness, and being seen.

It was just after seven in the morning when I pulled up to the Whitmore house. Same routine I’d followed for six months. Park the truck, grab my equipment, walk through the side gate into a backyard that looked like it belonged in a magazine. The pool was kidney-shaped, saltwater, heated, edged with expensive stone pavers and surrounded by perfectly manicured landscaping. I serviced twelve pools a week for Peninsula Pool Service, and this one was the easiest of them all. No kids. No parties. No chaos. Just a weekly visit to keep everything crystal clear.

I’d been doing pool maintenance for four years. Started as an assistant, worked my way up, got certified, and went independent the year before. The work was straightforward. Test the water, balance the chemicals, skim debris, check the equipment. Forty minutes if you know what you’re doing. I kept my head down and did good work. I didn’t talk much to clients. Most of them didn’t want conversation anyway. They wanted privacy and a clean pool.

Clara Whitmore was like that. Polite, distant. Occasionally I’d see her through the glass doors. She’d wave. I’d nod. That was it, until that Wednesday.

I was finishing up, checking the filter pressure one last time, when I heard the sliding door open. I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing barefoot on the patio, wearing a white robe. Her hair was down, no makeup, and she looked different from the woman I’d seen behind glass. Less polished. More real.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning,” she replied. “Sorry to bother you. I just had a question.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“The water pressure in the upstairs bathroom. Is that connected to the pool system at all?”

“No, that’s separate. House plumbing.”

“Oh. Okay.” She didn’t go back inside. She stayed there, arms folded, watching me pack my equipment.

“You come every Wednesday?” she asked.

“Yeah. Same day, same time. Unless there’s a problem.”

“Do you ever come other days if something goes wrong?”

“If a client calls. Emergency service costs extra.”

She nodded slowly. “Good to know.”

I zipped my bag. “All set for the week. Water’s balanced. Everything’s running fine.”

“Thank you.”

I walked toward the gate and felt her watching me the whole way. At the fence, I glanced back. She was still standing there, looking at the pool, at the spot where I’d been working. Then she went inside.

The next Wednesday, same time, same routine, but this time she came out within minutes of me starting. Same white robe, coffee cup in hand.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

“How’s everything looking?”

“Good. Levels are perfect.”

“That’s good.” She sat on a lounge chair and stayed there.

I tried to focus on my work, but I felt her attention, that subtle pressure in the air when someone is really watching you.

“Do you like this work?” she asked after a few minutes.

“It’s fine. Pays the bills.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I stopped and looked at her. “Yeah. I like it. It’s quiet. Predictable. You can see the results.”

She smiled faintly. “Those are good reasons.”

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Nothing. My husband works.”

“Nothing?”

“I manage things. The house. The calendar. The appearance of having a life.”

Something in her voice made me pause, but then I noticed movement beyond the fence. An older woman walking a small dog had stopped, watching us. Clara saw her too and stood immediately.

“I should let you finish,” she said, then went back inside.

I finished the job and left, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. The appearance of having a life.

The following Wednesday, she was already outside when I arrived, sitting by the pool with her feet in the water.

“Morning,” I said carefully.

“Morning.”

I started my routine. She watched in silence.

“My husband travels every Wednesday,” she said after a while.

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Seattle. San Francisco. New York. Always Wednesday.” She stared at the water. “So Wednesdays are mine. The only day I exist without being watched.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m watching you right now,” she added.

“No, you’re not,” I said. “I’m working.”

“There’s a difference.”

I looked at her. “What do you want from me, Mrs. Whitmore?”

“Clara,” she said softly. “Please.”

“What do you want, Clara?”

She stood slowly, deliberately, and then she untied her robe and let it fall. She was completely naked. She walked to the edge of the pool, looked straight at me, and said quietly, “Come fix this with me.”

Then she stepped into the water.

I froze. Every instinct screamed at me to leave, to grab my equipment and walk out that gate and never come back. But I didn’t move. I just stood there, test kit in my hand, watching her float on her back in the pool.

She didn’t touch me. She didn’t swim toward me. She didn’t speak again. She just existed there, exposed and calm, waiting.

I did nothing, because touching her would have crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. It would have turned me into someone I wasn’t.

After what felt like forever, she smiled. Not seductively. Not awkwardly. Just satisfied. She climbed out, water streaming down her skin, picked up her robe, and put it back on.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not moving.”

Then she went inside.

I stood there alone, hands shaking, heart pounding, trying to understand what had just happened. I packed up, drove to my next job on autopilot, replaying that moment over and over.

That night, I almost asked to be reassigned. Almost. But I didn’t. Part of me needed to know what came next.

The following Wednesday, I hesitated in my truck before getting out. When I finally walked through the gate, Clara was sitting at the patio table, fully dressed, calm.

“Morning,” she said neutrally.

“Morning.”

She didn’t speak while I worked. The silence felt heavier than her nakedness had.

When I finished, she looked up. “Same time next week?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only person in my life who doesn’t want something from me.”

“I do want something,” I said. “I want this not to get complicated.”

“It already is,” she replied. “I’m just being honest.”

I left knowing I’d be back.

Later, I understood what she’d done. It wasn’t impulse. It wasn’t desperation. It was a test. She’d put herself in the most vulnerable position possible to see if I’d take advantage. I hadn’t. That was the point.

The next Wednesday, I showed up again.

“You came,” she said.

“Yeah. Because I want to understand.”

“It’s not about the pool,” she said.

“No.”

“It’s about being invisible. About not being seen.”

Her husband didn’t see her. And she knew I had, because when she’d stood exposed, I hadn’t moved.

I looked at her and said quietly, “I’m twenty-seven. You’re forty-three. You’re married. I clean your pool. None of this makes sense.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“I know,” I said. “But it’s the most honest thing in my life right now.”

She looked at me for a long moment before asking, quietly, “What do you want from me?”

I shook my head. “I don’t really know. Maybe just… this. You showing up every Wednesday. Me existing without having to perform. No expectations. No pressure. Just presence.”

She let out a slow breath. “That’s all?”

“That’s everything.”

After that, we slipped into a rhythm that felt strangely sacred. Every Wednesday at exactly 7:00 a.m., I showed up to clean the pool. Clara would already be outside, sitting on the patio. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she just watched the water ripple while I worked. We never touched. We never crossed any physical boundary. But the emotional closeness between us was deeper than anything I’d ever known. It didn’t need skin or hands to exist.

She told me about her marriage—how it hadn’t ended with a single betrayal or explosion, but with a slow, quiet decay stretched over fifteen years. How her husband traveled constantly, choosing airports over home. How she learned to survive by filling the silence with routines, appearances, and polite smiles.

I told her about my life too. My job. My small apartment. The way I liked quiet mornings and simple meals. How I didn’t need much to feel content. We were opposites by every visible measure. Different worlds. Different histories. And somehow, we still understood each other without trying.

Three weeks into our routine, Clara asked me something that changed the air between us.

“Do you ever think about it after you leave?”

“Think about what?”

That morning, standing waist-deep in the pool, I should have lied. I should have said no.

Instead, I said, “Yeah. I think about it.”

“What do you think?” she asked.

I hesitated. “I think about how it would’ve been easier if you’d stayed inside. If we’d kept our distance. Maybe it would’ve been better.”

“Would it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it would’ve been simpler.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry for making things complicated.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “Sometimes complicated is more honest than simple.”

She looked at me then with those tired, unguarded eyes. “I trust you,” she said softly.

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t touch me. Because you stayed exactly where you were.”

I frowned. “Is that what you wanted? Someone who wouldn’t touch you?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Because everyone else in my life wants something from me. My body. My status. My time. But you—you just wanted to finish cleaning the pool.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want?”

I didn’t even have to think. “I want you to be okay. I want you to not feel lonely. I want you to feel seen.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re a good person, Michael.”

“I’m just a guy who cleans pools.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re not.”

That afternoon, my phone rang. It was Evan, my supervisor at Peninsula Pool Service.

“Michael, got a second?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been hearing things about the Whitmore property.”

My stomach tightened. “What kind of things?”

“That you’re spending extra time there. That Mrs. Whitmore’s been… friendly.”

“Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just be careful, man. Private clients. Married women. That combination never ends well.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But perception matters. If the HOA gets complaints, we lose the contract—and you lose the job.”

“I understand.”

“Just keep it professional. Clock in. Clock out.”

He hung up.

I sat in my truck staring at my phone, realizing that our Wednesday mornings hadn’t been as invisible as we thought. Someone had been watching. Someone had been talking. And it was only a matter of time before it turned into something ugly.

The next Wednesday, I arrived at 7:00 a.m. like always. As I was setting up, the neighbor—the woman with the dog—appeared by the fence.

“Excuse me,” she called.

I walked over. “Yes, ma’am?”

“How long do you usually take?”

“About forty minutes. Why?”

“Just curious. We’re thinking of hiring you for our pool.”

“You can call the office. They’ll set it up.”

She smiled, but her eyes stayed sharp. “I’ve noticed you’re very thorough. Mrs. Whitmore must appreciate that.”

“I just do my job.”

“I’m sure you do.”

She walked away.

When I turned back, Clara was standing on the patio, pale. She’d heard everything.

“That was Lena,” she said quietly. “She talks to everyone. Including my husband.”

“Nothing’s happening,” I said. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “People see what they want to see.”

“So what do we do?”

She looked at the pool. Then at the fence. Then at me. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m not ready to stop.”

She searched my face. “Are you?”

I should have said yes. I should have walked away. I should have protected both of us.

Instead, I said, “No. I’m not ready to stop either.”

Two days later, Clara texted me for the first time outside our routine.

Can’t do this week. I’m sorry.

No explanation. No follow-up.

I stared at the message for a long time. Typed three responses. Deleted them all. Finally sent one word.

Understood.

That Wednesday, I drove past the Whitmore house on my way to another job. I slowed as I passed. The pool water was still. No one outside. I kept driving.

The next Wednesday was the same. Silence.

I added the property back to my route and showed up anyway. The side gate was locked. I stood there with my hand on the latch, debating whether to ring the bell. I didn’t. I got back in my truck and left.

That afternoon, Evan called again.

“Michael, we need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“The Riverside HOA called. Surprise pool inspection next week. Whole neighborhood.”

“Why?”

“Someone filed a complaint. Said one of the pool guys was spending too much time at certain houses. Being inappropriate.”

My chest tightened. “Who filed it?”

“They won’t say. But it’s obvious who they mean.”

“Nothing happened,” I said. “I swear.”

“I believe you,” Evan replied. “But perception is reality. And right now, the perception is bad.”

“So what happens?”

“I’m pulling you from the Whitmore property. Reassigning it to Jake.”

“For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

He paused. “I’m sorry, man. We can’t risk losing the HOA contract.”

He hung up.

I sat there in my truck, staring at nothing, realizing that Clara had known this was coming. That was why she canceled. Why she disappeared. She’d chosen safety over whatever this was between us.

And I couldn’t blame her.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

I kept busy—worked my other properties, focused on maintenance schedules, invoices, the steady rhythm of physical labor. I kept my head down. I told myself not to think about Wednesday mornings by Clara’s pool.

I failed.

Every Wednesday at exactly 7:00 a.m., my mind betrayed me. I thought about her. About our conversations. About the way she looked at me when she said I was the only person who truly saw her. I wondered if she thought about me too, or if she had already folded those mornings away and moved on.

I tried to replace those hours with something else. Someone else. It didn’t work.

Three weeks after the last time I’d seen Clara, I was home one night when my phone buzzed.

11:00 p.m.
Unknown number.

There’s a leak in the pool equipment.
I don’t trust anyone else.
Can you come?

I knew immediately it was her.

I knew the number wasn’t saved because she was texting from a different phone. And I knew—absolutely knew—this wasn’t really about a leak.

I sat on my couch, phone in my hand, fully aware of what I should do. Delete the message. Block the number. Move on with my life.

Instead, I typed back:
When? I can come now if you want.

The reply came instantly.
The porch light will be on.

I glanced at the clock. 11:07 p.m.

Her husband was probably home. Probably asleep upstairs. Probably had no idea his wife was texting the pool guy. Me.

I’ll be there in 20 minutes, I wrote.

I pulled up to the Whitmore house at 11:32 p.m. The porch light glowed exactly as promised. The rest of the house was dark.

I slipped through the side gate. It was unlocked now.

Clara was sitting by the pool, wearing jeans and a hoodie, her feet dangling in the water.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi,” I replied. “Thanks for calling.”

“Is there really a leak?” I asked.

“No,” she admitted.

I sat down on the pool deck—not too close, but close enough.

We stayed like that for a while. The soft hum of the pool filter. The cool night air settling around us.

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” she said finally.

I waited.

“Lena filed a complaint with the HOA,” she continued. “Said she saw inappropriate behavior. My husband got a call from the management company.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were professional. That Lena was bored and making things up. That there was nothing to worry about.”

“Did he believe you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think he cared enough to investigate.”

“But the Wednesday sessions had to stop.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “For both of us.”

I nodded, staring at the water. “If they’d found anything, you would’ve lost your job. I would’ve lost… something. I don’t even know what.”

“But something,” she said.

“Yes.”

Silence again.

“Why did you text me tonight?” I asked.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said. “About those mornings. About the way you saw me.”

She turned toward me. “I’m not asking for anything. I promise. I just needed to see you one more time. To say goodbye properly.”

“Is that what this is?” I asked. “Goodbye?”

“It has to be,” she said. “We both know that.”

She looked at me fully then. “You’re twenty-seven. I’m forty-three. I’m married. You clean pools. I live in a gated house. We don’t exist in the same world.”

“We existed together every Wednesday morning for two months,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “But that was borrowed time. This is real life.”

“What if real life is the borrowed time,” I said, “and Wednesday mornings were the only thing that was actually real?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes this harder.”

“Good,” I said. “It should be hard.”

We sat there as the pool filter clicked on, off, then on again.

“I needed to know,” Clara said quietly, “that someone would choose restraint. That someone would see me at my most vulnerable and not take advantage.”

“Is that what that morning was about,” I asked, “when you got in the pool naked?”

“Yes,” she said. “I needed to test you. To know if you were safe.”

“And was I?”

“More than safe,” she said. “You were kind. You stayed exactly where you were. You didn’t move toward me. You didn’t move away. You just stayed.”

She swallowed. “And that told me everything. That you saw me as a person. Not an opportunity. Not a fantasy. Just… me.”

I slowly reached out, placing my hand on the pool deck beside hers. Not touching. Just close.

She looked down at the space between our hands. Then she placed her hand over mine—just for a second. Long enough to feel real.

Then she pulled away.

“You should go,” she said softly. “Before Mark wakes up. Before this becomes something we can’t undo.”

“What if I don’t want to undo it?”

She looked at me sadly. “Then you’re braver than I am.”

I stood.

“I’m not brave,” I said. “I’m just honest.”

“Then be honest now,” she said. “Do you think about me every Wednesday at seven?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I think about how you looked sitting by the pool. About your voice when you talked about being invisible. About how it felt to be the only person who really saw you.”

She closed her eyes.

“You have to stop,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t leave him,” she said. “I can’t walk away from fifteen years of marriage. From this house. From this life. Even if it’s empty.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe just this. Sitting by your pool at midnight. Talking honestly. Existing together without pretending.”

“For how long?”

“However long we have.”

She stood, facing me, close enough that I could see her breath in the cool air.

“If we do this,” she said quietly, “we have to be careful. Smarter.”

“No more Wednesday mornings,” I said.

“No more schedules,” she agreed. “Just… occasionally. When it’s safe.”

“Okay.”

“And no touching,” she added. “No crossing lines. Just conversation. Just presence.”

I nodded.

That was the agreement.

And somehow, it felt like everything—and nothing—at the same time.

“I can do that,” she said softly. “Can you? Because I’m not sure I can. Being this close to you and not—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

“I know,” I said. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

“Together?”

She nodded. “Okay. But you need to go now. Before I do something we’d both regret.”

I walked toward the gate, then stopped and looked back.

She was standing by the pool, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching me like she was bracing against a cold wind.

“Same time next week?” I asked.

She gave a sad, knowing smile. “No. Too predictable. I’ll text you when it’s safe.”

“Okay, Clara.”

“And… Michael?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. For coming. For staying. For not turning this into something ugly.”

“It could never be ugly,” I said. “Not with you.”

I left through the gate, heard it click shut behind me, climbed into my truck, and drove home knowing—absolutely knowing—that this wasn’t over.

Two weeks passed before she texted again.

Thursday night. 10:00 p.m. Just to talk.

I was there at 9:58.

We sat by the pool and talked about nothing important. About my other jobs. About a book she was reading. About the weather turning colder. Small, harmless words layered over something heavy and unspoken.

Because underneath every sentence was the truth we were avoiding: we had found something neither of us was looking for. Something that didn’t fit into either of our lives. Something that existed anyway.

After an hour, she said I should go.

I did.

Then three days later, she texted again.

And again a week after that.

Always late at night. Always when her husband was asleep or traveling. Always careful.

We never touched beyond that one moment when her hand covered mine.

Never kissed.

Never crossed the physical line we’d drawn so carefully.

But the emotional closeness deepened every time, quiet and dangerous and undeniable.

Three months after that first late-night visit, I arrived at the Whitmore house on a Tuesday evening.

The porch light was on.

Something felt wrong.

I walked through the gate.

Clara was sitting by the pool like always—but she wasn’t alone.

A man stood on the patio, mid-50s, expensive clothes, phone in his hand.

Mark.

Her husband.

I froze.

Clara saw me. Her face drained of color.

Mark looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Pool service,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Got a call about a leak. Emergency. Water backing up into the equipment room.”

He frowned and looked at Clara.

“You called pool service this afternoon. You told me.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said quickly. “I did. You were on your call with Tokyo. You weren’t listening.”

Mark studied me for a moment, then glanced back at his phone.

“Fine. Fix it and send the bill.”

He went inside.

Clara and I stood there in silence, hearts pounding, waiting.

After a couple of minutes, she whispered, “You should check the equipment.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I will. Just in case he comes back out.”

I walked to the equipment room, opened the panel, pretended to inspect pipes and connections.

Clara followed and stood in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know he’d be home. His flight was supposed to land at midnight.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. He saw you. He’ll remember your face.”

Then she swallowed hard. “We have to stop. Right now. Before this gets worse.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Neither do I.”

“But we don’t have a choice.”

She looked at me, tears pooling in her eyes. “I can’t go back to being invisible.”

“You’re not invisible,” I said. “Not to me.”

“But we can’t keep doing this. The risk is too high.”

“So that’s it?” she whispered. “We just end?”

“We don’t end,” I said quietly. “We pause. Until it’s safer.”

“When will it be safer?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded, wiped her eyes. “Okay. You’re right. We should pause.”

I closed the equipment panel.

“Leak’s fixed,” I said.

“Thank you.”

I walked past her through the gate, got into my truck, and drove away without looking back.

That was eight weeks ago.

She hasn’t texted since.

I haven’t driven by her house.

We’ve stayed apart. Stayed careful. Stayed safe.

But some nights, I think about those Wednesday mornings. About sitting by her pool. About the way she looked when she finally felt seen.

And I wonder if she thinks about them too.

Last week I got a new client. Older couple. Nice house. Pool that needed work.

As I was finishing up, the wife asked, “Do you ever do Wednesday mornings? That’s my husband’s golf day. The house is quiet.”

I looked at her.

I saw the loneliness in her eyes. The carefully constructed life. The quiet hunger to be noticed.

“No,” I said. “I keep Wednesdays open. Personal policy.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It is.”

I finished the job, got paid, and left.

Because Clara taught me something I’ll carry forever.

Some connections aren’t meant to last.

They’re meant to teach you about restraint. About respect. About choosing someone else’s dignity over your own desire.

And here’s the thing—

Every Wednesday at 7 a.m., I still wake up thinking about her.

About the pool I’m not cleaning.

About the woman I’m not seeing.

About the line we didn’t cross.

And the choice we made to walk away instead of stepping over it.

And sometimes—rarely, but often enough to matter—my phone vibrates in my pocket. No name. No words. Just an image. The pool, perfectly clean and still, the surface unbroken. Her quiet way of saying she remembers, too.

I never reply to those pictures. I don’t text back. I don’t try to reopen anything, because what we shared was flawless precisely because it remained suspended in that narrow, fragile space between desire and restraint, between closeness and distance, between what we wanted and what we allowed ourselves to touch.

Some nights, when the roads are empty and my thoughts are loud, I drive past her neighborhood. I never turn onto her street. I don’t slow down. I just pass the gated entrance, knowing she’s there, knowing she’s thinking about me the same way I’m thinking about her, knowing that some doors stay closed because they’re meant to.

What I understand now is this: Clara never needed me to repair her life. She didn’t need saving. She needed witnessing. She needed someone to truly see her—standing in that pool, sitting beside her under the dim lights late at night, choosing restraint when crossing the line would have been simpler and far more destructive.

And in return, she showed me what genuine connection actually looks like. Not touching. Not claiming. Not possession. Just seeing someone clearly and letting yourself be seen in return, without expectations, without demands, without turning it into something it was never supposed to become.

Last night, my phone buzzed at 11:00 p.m. Unknown number. One sentence. The pool needs winterizing. I trust you.

I stared at the screen for a long time. I knew what it meant. I knew what she was really asking for. One more time. One more conversation. One more chance to exist together before winter sealed everything shut.

I typed back, When?

Thursday. Late. When the neighborhood’s asleep.

I’ll be there tomorrow night.

I know how it will go. I’ll pull up to the Whitmore house one last time. The porch light will be on. The gate unlocked. Clara will be waiting by the pool. We’ll talk. We’ll sit in silence. We’ll share space without crossing the boundary we’ve protected so carefully. Then I’ll leave. Winter will arrive. The pool will close. And we’ll return to being strangers who once knew each other in ways no one else ever will.

Because that’s what this has always been. Not a relationship. Not an affair. Not a mistake. Just two people who met in the narrow space between what’s permitted and what’s real, and chose restraint every single time.

Some things aren’t meant to be fixed. They’re meant to be held.

That Wednesday morning when Clara stepped into the pool, naked and unguarded, and whispered, “Come fix this with me,” she wasn’t asking to be touched. She was asking me to stay exactly where I was. She was asking me to prove that someone could see her at her most vulnerable and still choose respect over desire.

And I did.

I stayed. I watched. I bore witness.

For two months, we built something entirely out of restraint. Out of midnight conversations by the pool. Out of the space between wanting and having. Out of the choice, made again and again, not to cross the line.

The pool is closing for winter now. And maybe this is closing too.

But some Wednesday mornings, I still wake up at seven and think about her. About the woman I truly saw. About the connection we protected. About the line we never crossed.

And now I understand that some people are never meant to be yours. They’re meant to remind you what real connection feels like when you strip away taking and touching and ownership. When you simply see someone, and allow yourself to be seen in return.

The porch light still glows some nights. And some nights I drive past and keep going.

Because what we had was perfect—exactly because we left it untouched.