The heat presses down like a heavy quilt, suffocating and unrelenting. My skin is slick with sweat, and even the slightest breeze feels like it’s been warmed in an oven. I lie still, sprawled out on the sunbed, skin prickling under the sun’s unforgiving gaze. The air is thick—thick enough to taste—like breathing through syrup. I close my eyes. Everything slows. I hear it: my lagoon-style swimming pool whispering to me from a few steps away. It doesn’t just invite — it seduces. Each ripple flashes in the sunlight like a wink from a lover. It dares me to move.

I open my eyes, squinting through the brightness. The surface of the water sparkles, thousands of tiny suns winking back at me. The light dances and skips, reflecting off the ripples like diamonds caught mid-twirl. Around the pool, my garden explodes in color and fragrance — Gardenia, Lily, Lilac, Lavender, Jasmine — I can’t name them all, not in this delirium. But their combined perfume wraps around me, sweet and heady, a floral fog that clings to my skin and fills my lungs. Even the sharp, familiar tang of chlorine can’t cut through it.

My gaze drifts to the far end of the pool, where a waterfall spills lazily over the rock, creating a liquid curtain that hides a small ledge tucked behind it. The sound of it — steady and soothing — mixes with the lazy hum of bees weaving through the blossoms and the rustling of leaves overhead. But all I hear is the water calling me louder.

I can’t take it anymore. I rise, take one long inhale — thick with flower and summer and sun — and dive.

The plunge slices the heat in two. The water clutches at me like a second skin, cool and velvety, drawing a sharp gasp from my soul even though I hold my breath. The silence is instant. The world above disappears. Down here, there’s only me, the water, and the faint thrum of my pulse in my ears.

Bubbles stream past my cheeks, tickling my skin, popping softly. My arms cut through the water, one stroke after another, smooth and powerful. I keep my eyes open, always open. The chlorine stings, but I don’t care. I want to see everything — the shimmer of sunlight spearing down from above, the swirl of my hair trailing like seaweed, the shifting patterns of light playing along the pool walls.

At the bottom, I pause. The water presses gently against me, cradling me in its weightless hold. I float there, suspended in a dream, and trace my fingers along the pool floor. The tiles are slick, the marble inlays warmer than expected, shaped into a mosaic of a seahorse curling in metallic tones — bronze, copper, deep gold, and sandy tan. My skin drinks in the textures: smooth marble, rough plaster, slippery algae in the corners. Every detail feels magnified underwater, more intimate.

My long blonde hair floats around me like a halo, soft and ghostly. I drift in place, letting the illusion take me. Down here, I’m not just swimming — I’m transforming. I am a mermaid, a creature of calm and current, of silence and motion. I belong here.

But my lungs remind me I’m human. I feel the tension building, the subtle panic tapping at my ribs. I release a few bubbles, watching them spiral upward. They catch the light like tiny globes before vanishing. I push toward the surface.

As I ascend, the sound of the waterfall grows louder, more insistent, like a pulse from another world. I break through the surface with a rush, water streaming from my face and hair. The sun is a white explosion above, and I blink against its brilliance. My hair slicks back over my shoulders, heavy and dripping. I breathe — deep, greedy — drawing in the warm, perfumed air. The heat wraps around me again, but it’s changed. Less cruel now. More forgiving.

Behind me, the waterfall murmurs, a lullaby just for me. I float near it, letting the spray kiss my back, cooling my shoulders. The flowers seem brighter. The air is richer—my skin hums. I close my eyes, drifting, already preparing to dive again — this time, for longer.

Back into my private world. My poetic swim.