Chapter 22 | “The New Language of Love”

 

The Language of Water

There was a time when I kept hearing the sound of water.

Not the faucet. Not the rain. But something softer—
a whisper that seemed to rise from inside my body,
like the soul murmuring near my ear.

One day, I sat by the lake and closed my eyes.
The world became a translucent shell around me.
And the water… sang inside it.

Its song had no lyrics,
yet it made me cry.

It told me that the softness I thought I had lost
was still within me, hidden in the spaces I forgot to feel.

I saw my childhood self, spinning joyfully in a stream.
I saw my mother crying quietly at night,
her tears soaking into her pillow, slipping into her dreams.

I saw a version of me from another world,
holding sapphire-blue water in her palms,
healing a river on another star.

Water has never been silent.
It’s always been speaking.
We just forgot how to listen.

“Drink me,”
water said.

“Not because you're thirsty—
but because you need to be wrapped in gentleness.”

Since that day, every time I drink water,
I pause, close my eyes,
and thank it for still choosing to enter my body
with all its memory, all its wisdom.