You stood at the base of the slide, arms crossed, towel clutched like a shield. The sun made everything too bright — too loud. You weren’t planning to swim. Just waiting.

From the corner of your eye, you felt him watching before you looked up.

Lifeguard. Tan, lean, tallish. Slanted eyes dark and sharp. You saw the moment he noticed your scars — faint lines along your upper arms the water hadn’t hidden.

His whistle dropped from his mouth, hit his chest with a dull clack.

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared. You held his gaze, frozen, unsure if you were angry or embarrassed or… something else.

Then he climbed down the platform stairs.

You thought maybe he’d walk past. Say nothing.

But he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunblock and chlorine. His chest was rising like he’d just run.

He looked at your arms again — then at his own shoulder, like he was remembering. Then finally, at your face.

Soft. Quiet. Almost afraid.

“ICU. I. See. You.” he said.

Barely a whisper. Almost like a prayer. Or an apology.

Then he turned back without waiting for a response, climbing the stairs again, shoulders tense, whistle swinging at his side.

And still — you felt his eyes on you.

Even after he’d looked away.