Jessica Traynor

We just drifted out of each other's orbits.

After the breathwork, the instructor tells us to sit up.

The moon is with us now, a ghost between wisps of cloud.

As we walk to the concrete steps that lead into the sea, I'm dreading what's to come, but I persevere in spite of the voice inside me saying, what is the point of all this?

The point, I tell myself, is that when our inner resources fail us, we turn to ritual to try to replenish what was once inside.

I pass people on the walkway, wrapping towels around themselves and chatting quietly.

The sea and sky are pooling into each other like clouds of ink.

I pull off my outer layers of clothes.

The rest of the group lags behind and I'm not sure if I'm meant to wait.

As I stand holding the metal rail that splits the steps in two, a man comes up to me on the other side.

It's too dark to see his face properly, but he says to me, it's not cold, don't worry.

Oh, thank you, I say, and I mean it.

I am grateful for this small comfort from someone who has just made it out of the water.

The other women are stripping off now, chatting and laughing.

But I'm in the water, thigh deep, chest deep.

I push off from the bottom step, out into nothing.