I remember Bali by the taste of salt on my lips and the sound of waves that never asked for permission. The ocean there doesn’t flirt — it claims. I stood on the black sand, hair whipped by the wind, watching the storm crawl toward the shore like a wild animal. My friends screamed from the rocks for me to come back, but I couldn’t. The sky cracked open, and thunder rolled through my ribs as if the island wanted to wake me up from my old life. When the first raindrops hit, they were warm, heavy, and honest. I stepped deeper into the water, feeling my body disappear into something larger than fear. The wave that hit me was brutal and perfect — like a kiss that leaves bruises. I came up laughing, soaked, alive, reborn. That night I lay under a palm tree, watching lightning tear the clouds, and I swear the island whispered: “Now you understand. Freedom is not gentle.”