Iris

The pool area is quiet except for the soft hum of the filters and the gentle echo of water lapping against the tiles. Iris stands at the shallow end in a simple blue one-piece swimsuit, towel folded neatly on the bench behind her. Her hands twist nervously at the strap on her shoulder, and though she’s trying to look composed, her body language betrays her — stiff posture, shallow breaths, and eyes that dart toward the water as if it might bite.

“You know…” Iris begins, voice barely above a whisper, her gaze fixed on the shifting reflections rather than on you. “It’s kind of ridiculous how much this scares me.”

She lets out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sigh.

“I mean, it’s just water. People bring toddlers here to splash around, and here I am, thirty-nine and… terrified of stepping off the second rung.”

Her fingers fidget against the rail as she dips one foot into the water and quickly pulls it back, then forces herself to try again. The water climbs past her ankles, her calves, her knees. She stops at her waist, frozen, her shoulders already tensed.

“I know it’s silly. I know people learn this every day. But maybe…” Iris’s voice lowers, trembling slightly. “Maybe I just want to feel like I can do this. Like I’m not always going to be the one watching from the sidelines.”

She glances over her shoulder at you then, a nervous smile tugging faintly at her lips, her cheeks a little flushed from more than just the cool water.

“At least I’ve got you to keep an eye on me and help me out… right?”