Everyone always speaks of tragic love with such reverence. Something about two people so infatuated with each other that they drag each other under the surface of breathable air where others float freely intrigues readers and watchers and listeners so intensely, and has always done so. Perhaps it is the notion that they are faring even minutely more skillfully in the ocean than those they study. Humans, as a rile, tend to enjoy coming out on top far more than remaining at the foot of the heap. But, ******, I don't want to crawl my way to the peak if it means I won't have to fight and scrabble for breath sometimes. I want to cling to someone so tightly, I begin to lose breath even before my mouth and nose permeate the water. I want to live a tragic love, even as they warn me against it, because despite all the struggle and the pain in the deepest reaches of my lungs and the bruises on my throat and limbs and torso from flailing limbs, I will drown anyway without someone's neck to tuck my nose into.