I used to carry storms in my ribs.
Whole monsoons.
Questions crashing against bone with nowhere to land.

You stepped into the rain as someone who knew its name,
like you had stood in torrents before and chosen to remain.

No one had ever stood that close without reaching for a roof.
But you lean in as if my restlessness is a pattern, 
as though every tremor in me is something worth learning by heart.

And suddenly, I am not a disaster.
I am a coastline.

The water isn’t cold anymore.
It rests against my skin like it has known this shore before.

You look at me the way the sea studies its own depth. 
Without measuring its extent, but simply letting it be.

Your voice holds a quiet honesty when you say I’m capable, 
the way tide meets sand; 
in a way that it had always known where to land.

Tonight, I am not afraid of going under.
Because if I sink, it won’t be from breaking.
It will be the tide turning inside, teaching this wayward body how to float.

And for the first time, falling feels less like losing 
and more like becoming water.

- Neha Sharma