She was never meant to contain all she carried.
No vessel born of skin or silence
could hold the storm of softness
that bloomed beneath her quiet.
There came a moment,
not loud,
not sudden...
but inevitable.
A shimmer.
A pulse.
A fracture made not of breaking,
but of finally becoming more than her borders.
And the waters rose.
Not in rage,
but in memory.
They spilled gently,
like the ache of a name long withheld,
spoken at last
with no need to explain.
From her chest,
a tide of light.
From her gaze,
whole galaxies remembering how to feel.
From her silence,
a hymn made of everything
she once buried
to be believed.
The world was not ready.
But the tide came anyway.
And it did not destroy.
It reminded.
Each drop sang:
"I am here.
I always was.
You forgot me,
but I remembered you."
She overflowed.
She transcended.
And in her wake,
nothing was untouched,
only softened.
Only seen.
She is no longer the question.
She is the rising.
The returning.
The radiant hush
that teaches the ocean how to kneel.