The Thesis by Anastasia Kononenko

Thirty meters below the surface

— the kind of depth where women over forty don’t dive to impress indifferent husbands, where the pressure cracks skulls and the cold seeps into your marrow so deeply it makes you want to die — red turns green.

Seascape-obsessed artists painting three meters above their tanks never learn this. Sunlight still kisses their canvases. But those thirty meters above your head feel like both salvation and a personal hell.

He could’ve said — with a clear conscience — that he didn’t want anyone else to know this. But there was no one to tell.

Underwater, you feel every current. The cold ones grab your legs like they want to drown you; the warm ones scorch your skin. Goosebumps stampede down your arms, your scalp prickles. All of it combined — not the nicest way to die. Especially when something won’t stop dragging you further out into the ocean.

Michael sighed and moved on to the next exhibit. This one demanded attention — it glittered, crumbled, hurt your teeth just by looking. Around it, the elite of modern art twirled in their curated clothing. A group show, ten young artists united by a theme. This piece — this was the thesis. By Brad. Who else.

Michael understood this world. Still, sometimes he wandered through it, pretending to be just another curious bystander. The question was — who’d believe that, and did it even matter?

On the canvas, a restless sea stirred. Emerald shards stared upward — playful, dangerous.

Michael smirked. And for some reason, wanted to understand it.

“You won’t believe this,” someone tugged on Robert’s sleeve. A gesture from a life long gone. It stirred a quiet anticipation in him. He set down his glass of amber liquid on a tall bar table. The whiskey stones clinked at the bottom.

“Well?” he asked, matching the sound, eyes sharp and amused.

Brad turned from the gallery entrance, presenting his back — broad, tense, in a washed-out white shirt. The bartender mistook it for a drink request. Not the best way to stay invisible, Robert noted, peering casually over the railing to the floor below.

Then something pulled. Tightened in his chest — insistent, physical. Robert inhaled, wet palms pressing off the rail, stepping back, eyes still locked downward.

“No fucking way,” he breathed.

Brad didn’t flinch. “He probably spent all year waiting for this — since I left for Vietnam.”

“I seriously don’t get why he’s here,” Robert muttered. Below, someone’s heavy hand gripped the same railing he just abandoned. “If you fall, Sandra and I won’t be able to hold you.”

“I’m not falling,” Brad said, too brightly. But the cheer unravelled midair, cracking into fragments — rage, hurt, a flicker of longing. Brad had always had a way of feeling too much at once. Even after two years apart, Robert remembered the chaos of it.

Then Brad tilted his head slightly and said, too loud:

“Sandra? Who’s Sandra? Are you Sandra? Hi.” He nodded at the sceptical blonde, as if her arched brows hid curiosity, not judgment. “The exhibition fell apart.”

She scanned the room — the second floor nearly empty, everyone herded off to the north wing by Michael. She gave Brad a lazy look.

“People are damp today,” she said. “But did you see the sky? It’s a day for walking, not breathing dust.”

Robert chuckled dryly, though tension hadn’t left his body.

“We miscalculated the weather. Forecast said rain.”

Then, trying to shake it off, he stepped away from the railing entirely.

“Nope. Don’t like this kind of coincidence. Rinse the rocks, Sandra. I’m leaving.”