My red swimming suit is old and faded. I haven't worked out in a month, so what I see in the mirror is the reincarnated sixteen-year-old girl. I could hide under a hoodie or a robe to the beach, but rare day alert: I don't care.

Why?

Because I'm in a new city where I don't know anyone for them to judge me.

Gwangju doesn't have beaches, but in front of me is a giant ocean with wild, crashing waves. So I morph into a excited six-year-old and zig-zag in and out of the water, playing tag with the waves. I pretend that IU's with me, because an imaginary friend is better than no friend at all. The sunlight glints off the water like winking lights.

"Ow," I called out, suddenly. Something sharp has stabbed my foot. Now I get why serious runners don't go barefoot. Pebbles and sharp shells poke out of the smooth blanket of wet sand. You can't avoid them. I hop into the water to numb the pain and then focus on the music in my phone and keep going.

I concentrate on the rhythm of the music. Eyes closed, I make my way through a world of darkness, all outside distractions shut away. When one sense is closed off, do the others compensate? I open my eyes to make sure I'm not about to collide anyone, then close them again and fill my lungs with salty air.

Breathe, they tell you when you exercise. Don't forget to breathe. I take hungry breaths and fill my lungs, flashing back to early morning hikes at camp when the world smelled fresh and pinery as if it were the first day of creation and it belonged to us alone, the teens of paradise. We'd run back on empty chanting of "Dear No One" after another and finally reward ourselves by fueling up on French toast, butter, and berries. Then we'd go back to the bunk to write letters, mostly because we wanted to get mail, the only proof of popularity.

What if I really were blind? What would I pick up through my other senses? I shut my eyes even longer, and then I half-collide with an oncoming runner.

"Fudge," he mutters under his breath.

He's pissed, I've broken his stride.

"Sorry," I mumbled. When he's far behind me, I tried again, this time with my headphones odd. I listen to the seagulls, breathe in the ocean scent, feel my skin tingle from the salty mist. I try to rise to another level of awareness and -

"WATCH OUT!"

"Wha -?"

I'm lifted up as if a tornado swept me off the ground before I realize what's happening.

Only this was no force nature.

Or if it were, it was disguised in a very human form. He moved fast, decisively, he lifting me off my feet. I see only tanned arms and well-trimmed dark hair that smells like coconut.

"What are you doing?" I remember a self-defense technique and wrap my leg around his and kick him behind the knee. He loses balance, falling back into the sand. He doesn't let go so I plow into him and my chin hits a jaw bone hard.

"Ow," I moaned, "what's wrong with you?"

He flips me in an instant and jumps up, lightning quick on his feet.

"me?" He stares in disbelief.

I lay there for a moment. What just happened?

The sun is at his back. He leaned forward, casting a long shadow over me. That's when I see his face for the first time. I open my mouth, only no words come out.

Hair swept to the right framing against his sharp, smooth planes of a face, so classically perfect he could be a Greek God come to life. Chocolate brown eyes hold mine a beat longer than they should.

I stare back.

And begin to unravel.

The corners of his mouth lifted. A slight headshake. "Did you think I was trying to kidnap you?"

"What were you doing?" A wave of annoyance rises up in me. "You scared me almost to death." I get to my feet and brush the sand off my sore bottom. My face already throbs with pain.

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head again, as if it's so obvious. "The sea urchin."

The what?

As if in answer, he lifts his chin in the direction of something in the sand, ahead of us. "You were about to land on it."

I stare at something black and scary, almost the size of a tennis ball. It's covered with thorns. He scoops it up and carries it back to me in his open palm like an offering. "They have sharp, venom-coated thorns that break off in your skin," he says, almost in awe.

I step back and he leans toward me. "Not something you'd want to land on."

"Sorru . . . I . . . had no -"

He carries it to the water, then reaching back with the grace of baseball thrower, he tosses it far out into the ocean. Without as much as a backward glance, the athlete sprints off in the opposite direction.

Only then do I see the back of his tank top:

LIFEGUARD.