Moonwhite

I sit in the sand, my feet half-buried, arms wrapped around my knees. The campfire crackles beside us, sparks rising into the evening sky that slowly folds over the sea. The smoke smells of salt and pine; the air is full of skin and sunscreen. The warmth of the day still clings to us, but it's pulling back now--like a sheet slipping from someone's shoulders.

We sit close around the fire. The guys in boardshorts, most of the girls in bikinis or cropped tops, the salt of the day still on our skin. Music hums from a small speakers.

I'm wearing the white bikini I bought yesterday. Too expensive, really. But I couldn't resist. It fits tight. Lifts my breasts slightly, presses them together like an offering. The bottom cuts low across the hips. I turned in the mirror and thought: Bold. Then: Exactly what I want.

This bikini makes a statement. Because it stands out. Because it barely covers anything. I wear it because I'm proud of my body. Because I have a slim waist. Because I have long legs. Because my breasts are small but firm, just right for the cut of this top. My areolas show through the thin fabric. I like my nipples when they get hard. They attract attention. And I like being looked at. What I don't like so much: my knees. And sometimes my hips. When I sit down, they make a little fold. But they look good when I stand up. Full. Feminine.

I know they're looking at me. Not openly. Or so they think. Their glances flick across the fire. They pretend to argue about music, beer, waves, summer plans. I like stirring their hunger.

My eyes scan the group. Nele looks like she stepped out of a beach campaign--flawlessly bronzed, shiny pink bikini, symmetrical breasts, sculpted waist. Lip gloss, though no one brings that to the beach. Her phone is in her hand but not filming. Her eyes crawl over me. I smile to myself. She's measuring if she still leads. I make it hard for her.

Luca sits opposite me, shirtless, tanned, swim shorts low on his hips. One hand in the sand, the other loosely around a beer bottle. He looks good--and knows it. But he doesn't flaunt it. That makes him interesting.

Julia, brown hair, slim build, always a bit introverted. She's sitting on a checkered beach towel, wearing an old T-shirt over her bikini. We've known each other since school. She never says much. But she sees everything. Now she sees me. She smiles crookedly. I nod at her.

Eventually we start arguing about whether we should go swimming. The water's still cold, but swimming would warm us. The boys quickly agree: dipping your feet is not enough. There needs to be a goal. The buoy?

„No way any of you make it to the buoy and back," says Tim, pointing at the sea. „Not with that current."

„I could," says Elias. He stretches, laughs, glances around to make sure we hear him.

„With your technique? Maybe in circles."

They laugh. Bottles clink. Flames crackle. They posture, flex their stories. But none of them stand. None take the lead.

„So what now?" Luca asks.

„What do we win?"

„For the honor?" Elias calls.

„Boring," mutters Tim. „That's not a bet, that's a stroll."

I get up.

Not dramatic. No entrance. I just push my hair back, glance at the water. My skin glows in the firelight. I know the fabric of my bottoms is tight. The flames cast shadows on my thighs.

„Talkers," I say softly. Calm. But it carries.

Heads turn. Luca straightens. Elias stares. Nele gives me a look: What are you doing?

I take a few steps toward the shore.

„Anna," Julia calls. Her voice suddenly close. Warm. Almost pleading. I turn slightly.

„You're really going out there?"

I nod. „Why not?"

„The current's not nothing."

I grin. „Neither am I."

Luca. The boys. The girls. They all watch. I roll my shoulders, stretch my back.

Then I turn.

And walk.

The sand grows cooler. My feet sink in. I feel the heat of my skin, still fed by their glances. My chest rises with each breath, my stomach taut with anticipation.

I'll show them.

All of them.

The first steps into the water are electric. The cold bites at my shins, crawls up my thighs. I hold my breath, smile through the goosebumps on my arms. My body reacts--naturally. My nipples harden, almost sting through the thin fabric. My bikini bottom tightens, presses firmly between my labia. My body is alive. Awake. Ready.

I dive in, leave the ground behind. My first stroke is long, clean. I stretch out, slicing through the water like air. Every muscle works--controlled. I'm a strong swimmer. I know it. I'm proud of it.

The buoy floats dark ahead, bobbing with the swell. Still far off, but within reach. I swim straight toward it. Steady breathing. No faltering. No fear. Just my body, the sea, the moon.

The water is smoother than I expected, but cold. I feel my skin tighten, my top stiffen against my breasts, firm like my resolve. The bottom stays in place. Doesn't slip. Holds me together. My body is a tool--and I command it.

But the sea doesn't stay still.

The current creeps in, almost unnoticed. I have to adjust, swim at an angle. My shoulders start to burn. My breath shifts. I force it calm. Measured. You wanted this, I think. You're not some boy-toy. You're better. You swim because you can.

Then: a tug at my side. A pull, diagonal to my course. I kick harder, pull stronger. But it costs energy. My fingers cramp. A stroke too shallow--I gulp seawater. It tastes like salt and weeds. I jerk my head up, sputter.

The buoy draws closer. Almost there. But I'm slowing. My shoulders scream. I curse silently. Force myself onward. Five strokes. Four. Three. I reach out, grip the plastic. It sways under me, slips. I cling to it. Breathe hard. My lungs pump. My legs float, heavy.

I'm proud I made it. But pride is heavy now. Like chains pulling me down. I won't let them see I'm tired.

I let go. Just the way back. I want to look strong when I come ashore. Proud. Not shaking. Not spent.

But the sea has other plans.

The current pulls sideways. I kick against it. My legs are heavy. I drift. The shoreline tilts. I have to correct. My breath shortens. My form breaks. I swim rough.

Something brushes my leg. Seaweed. Slick. It wraps around my calf, like fingers. I tear free. A sting on my inner thigh--maybe a jellyfish. I scream, but the wind swallows the sound. I slap the water. My foot cramps. I shift, push harder. Faster. Less finesse.

Panic taps at the edges. Not loud. Not yet. But I feel it.

I see the shore. Lights. Figures. Voices. Someone calls. My name? Maybe. But all I hear is surf. My heartbeat. The dragging pull at my hips like the sea wants me back.

I swim. Harder than ever. Not for pride. Not anymore. Now: survival.

Then: ground.

Solid sand beneath my feet. I stand--or try to. My legs buckle. I nearly go under. Catch myself. Stumble ashore. Gasp. Tremble. I'm here.

I lift my head.

They're standing. All of them. Still. Staring.

And I know instantly: this isn't about the swim anymore.

It's about what I'm wearing.

Or rather--what I'm not hiding anymore.

My whole body is shaking--from the swim, the adrenaline, the cold. Droplets run down my breasts, over my stomach, between my legs. My skin tightens; my nipples are hard, sensitive, almost aching under the wet fabric.

But the fabric is no longer fabric. My bikini has soaked through, gone transparent like frosted glass. I can feel the top clinging to my breasts, outlining every contour. The bottom sticks between my labia as if someone had pressed it there. No folds. No soft edges. Just skin. And a sheer film over it.

I want to cross my arms in front of my chest, grab a towel, vanish into the dark. I want to be gone. Unseen.

But I don't.

Not yet.

I won't give them that satisfaction--won't shrink, won't flinch. I came out of the sea like someone who fought and won. That doesn't end with a towel and a hasty retreat. The show isn't over yet.

I press my lips together. My cheeks burn. I feel the heat rising through my face. My knees are weak. But I stay upright.

They're all watching. Waiting to see what I'll do next.

Luca steps out of the shadows.

Slowly. Without swagger. Without a smile.

He walks straight toward me.

And I realize: I can't run.

He sees everything. Not just my body, but the tension in my shoulders, the trembling of my hands, the way I fight to hold myself together.

"You're shivering," he says.

I nod. Briefly. My voice is still stuck in my throat.

He stops half a meter from me. His eyes move across me, unhurried, unashamed. He sees my breasts. My belly. My exposed sex.

And I see something stir in him. His swim shorts tighten. A slow, visible swelling he can't hide. His breathing quickens.

"I didn't know you could swim like that," he says.

I smile. Or try to. "I didn't know I'd make it."

"And now?"

I lift my chin. "Now I'm standing here."

He nods. His eyes stay on mine. "Just the way you are," he says. Not teasing. Just stating the obvious.

"White is a great color for the beach," I say. "But I probably shouldn't have gone into the water with it."

"Maybe that's exactly why you did."

I shrug slightly. "I wanted you to see I could do it."

"We saw," he says softly. "Every stroke. And now we see you."

My arms are shaking. I can't keep them steady. I force myself.

"You're beautiful," he says.

"I'm half-naked. And exhausted," I reply. "Not beautiful."

"You are. Because of that."

I shake my head. Kneel down. The sand is cool on my knees, damp from the night air. I breathe deeply. Shortly. Shallowly. Then I reach behind my neck with both hands and slowly untie the bow on my bikini top. I want out of these wet clothes that aren't hiding anything anyway.

My fingers tremble. I pray no one sees it. I pray it doesn't look like fear--only like control.

The fabric slips loose. First one strap, then the whole piece falls forward, heavy with seawater, peeling away from my skin. I let it drop. The air touches my bare breasts, my nipples rigid, red, sensitive. I sit upright, my back straight. My chest exposed.

I feel their stares. Not all of them. But enough.

In my head, something screams: Hurry! Cover up! Turn away!

But I stay still.

I run my fingers through my wet hair. Casually. As if this were nothing. As if I weren't naked. As if I were simply myself.

Then I reach for the bottom.

It's harder. It clings to me like skin. I have to pull at both sides, gently, carefully. Shame flares in me--raw and deep. But I don't show it. I breathe through my nose, lips closed.

I slide it down. First over my hips, then off my butt. I feel the fabric peel from between my labia, pulling like it doesn't want to let go. I tug it slightly away from my body--and I know exactly how that looks. Everyone knows what they're seeing.

I stand up.

Fully. Naked.

The firelight catches on my breasts, my hips, my pubic lips. Sand sticks to my feet. My skin still steams from the cold. And I stand there. Not heroic. Not exaggerated. Just me. Entirely visible.

I feel every stare. And for the first time: silence. Not in me--but in the moment. No one laughs. No one whispers. Only the wind. Only the crackle of the fire.

Then Luca steps closer. Two quiet paces. He looks at me--really looks. His eyes linger on my breasts, then lower. Then return to my face. No smirk. No shame. Only recognition.

His erection is obvious now. Hard. Rising. And I know it's because of me. Because of what he sees. And maybe more: because of how I choose to be seen.

He offers me his towel.

But I don't wrap it around myself--not yet. I dry off. Thoroughly. My arms. My breasts. My stomach. My legs. Between my thighs. Even there. Slow. Deliberate. Unrushed.

Then I wrap it around my hips. My breasts stay bare. Just for another moment.

Luca smiles--his gaze brushing my breasts, then meeting my eyes.

We sit by the fire. Side by side. Their eyes still graze over me. But I've shown them who I am.

I was naked. I was trembling. I was ashamed.

And still, I stood my ground.