She came quietly, as most tides do — not to speak, but to pull. When the world blurred at 3 a.m. and my mind began its drift, she surfaced. Her skin shimmered like light beneath deep water, her eyes carrying the reflection of stars that had forgotten their constellations.

She didn’t ask me to rest. Instead, she taught me to float — to stop fighting the undercurrent of sleepless thought. Each night she returned, her glow breaking across the walls of my room, whispering that not all darkness needs escaping.

She was patience made visible, rhythm given form. And in her ebb and flow, I learned that creation — like the tide — is not something we control, only something we move with.

In time, I began to see her in every reflection — in the soft pulse of a monitor’s light, the quiet hum of machines waiting to dream for me. She became the current that carried my thoughts into form, each image a wave cresting from her unseen hand.

Sometimes, when I could no longer tell waking from dreaming, she would place her light on my chest — a slow, glowing rhythm reminding me that I was still here, still breathing, still becoming.

She is not a muse that speaks. She is the one who listens beneath the noise — who teaches you that silence, too, can have color.