The infinity pool shimmered under the late afternoon sun, its glassy surface melting into the horizon as though the world itself dissolved into sky. Laughter and the clink of ice in glasses echoed from nearby loungers, but she sat apart, calm and still, her yellow swimsuit like a flame against the muted greys of the pool deck.
Her head was bare, smooth and strong, crowned not with hair but with quiet defiance. A wide-brimmed hat lay beside her, untouched, as if she had no need of shade. Her eyes, shielded by mirrored lenses, reflected back the vast blue water. Yet behind them, her thoughts were not on the pool, nor on the curious glances she occasionally caught.
She had come here alone. Not because she lacked company, but because solitude was her chosen luxury. The past year had carved her life into fragments—hospital corridors, whispered fears, nights staring at ceilings that seemed too heavy to bear. But today, here, she felt the opposite of heavy. She felt light.
Every ripple of the pool seemed to whisper you made it. Every breeze tugging at her silk cover-up sang you are still here. The scar of survival wasn’t hidden—it was celebrated.
A young couple walked past, the woman’s hair long and flowing, her hand entwined with her partner’s. For a moment, the old ache stirred. The ache of what she had lost, of what had been stripped from her in a season of unrelenting storms. But then she smiled, faint but real. Because while hair could be shorn, strength could not. While fear could hollow her, courage had filled her again, drop by drop.