No matter where I am, they swim right to me. 🥹

The first time it happened, I thought it was a coincidence.

I was standing knee-deep in the quiet river, the water cool and silky around my legs, sunlight scattering diamonds across the surface. The forest behind me buzzed with life, but out here in the gentle current, everything felt still. I dipped my fingers into the water absentmindedly, watching the ripples widen and disappear.

Then I saw them.

At first, just shadows beneath the surface. Small, quick flashes of silver weaving between beams of light. Within seconds, they were everywhere — darting, circling, gathering around me as if I had sent out some silent invitation.

Tiny fish.

Dozens of them.

They swam right to me.

The river is part of their world. It is where they are born, where they grow, where they learn to dart away from danger and glide through shifting currents. To them, I must look enormous — a tall, strange shape casting long shadows through their watery home.

And yet, they are not afraid.

Instead, they gather.

Sometimes they nibble gently at my toes, curious and bold. Sometimes they circle in playful spirals, as if testing how close they can get before I move. When sunlight hits them just right, their scales shimmer in flashes of silver, gold, and pale blue. They look like living sparks dancing in liquid light.

I’ve begun to recognize some of them.

There is one slightly larger than the rest, with a faint darker stripe along its side. It always approaches first, cautious but confident. Another is smaller and quicker, zigzagging excitedly through the group before settling near my feet. They are not pets. They are not tamed. They are simply wild creatures choosing, again and again, to come close.

The feeling is overwhelming in the softest way.

In a world that often feels loud and hurried, the river moves at its own pace. The fish respond only to what is real — movement, vibration, energy. They do not care about titles or worries or the weight of human thoughts. They respond to presence.

And when I am still — truly still — they come.

One afternoon, clouds drifted across the sky, dimming the light and cooling the air. The river looked darker, more serious. I stepped in slowly, unsure if they would appear in the same way.

For a few seconds, nothing.

Then, like a quiet whisper beneath the surface, the first flicker of movement. A silver flash. Another. And then many more.

They swam right to me.

Even on a cloudy day.

Even when the water felt different.

Even when I felt different.

There’s something deeply touching about that consistency. 🥹

It reminds me that connection doesn’t always need words. It doesn’t require grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just about showing up — standing gently in someone else’s world without trying to change it.

Children who visit the river often squeal and splash, and the fish scatter instantly, vanishing into deeper water. It’s not that the fish dislike them. They simply respond to energy. Fast movements mean caution. Loud splashes mean uncertainty.

But when the water is calm, when the surface rests like glass, curiosity wins.

I’ve started kneeling instead of standing. When I lower myself slowly, the fish explore even more boldly. They brush against my hands, swirl around my wrists. Once, one leaped briefly above the surface, catching a spark of sunlight before slipping back into the cool depths.

I gasped in delight.

Moments like that feel like gifts.

I often wonder what they sense. Perhaps the steady rhythm of my breathing through the water. Perhaps the warmth of my skin compared to the river’s coolness. Or maybe they simply recognize that I am not a threat.

Whatever the reason, their trust feels sacred.

The riverbank has become my quiet place. When the day feels heavy or my thoughts feel tangled, I come here. I step into the water, close my eyes, and wait.

It never takes long.

The gentle taps begin — tiny, playful reminders that life is moving all around me. That I am not alone in this vast, flowing world.

Sometimes I imagine how I must look from beneath the surface: a towering figure rooted in shifting sand, light bending around my shape. And still, they approach.

No matter where I stand.

No matter which part of the river I choose.

They swim right to me.

As the sun begins to set, the water turns amber and rose-colored. The fish glow like scattered coins beneath the surface. Eventually, the air cools and shadows stretch long across the current. One by one, the fish drift away, dissolving back into the deeper parts of their home.

But I know they’ll return.

Tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Because this connection isn’t about ownership. It isn’t about control. It’s about coexistence — about standing quietly in the middle of something wild and being accepted by it.

When I finally step out of the river, droplets sliding down my legs, I look back at the shimmering surface. It seems ordinary again, just water flowing over stones.

But I know what lives beneath.

And I know that if I return, if I stand still and open-hearted, they will come.

No matter where I am, they swim right to me. 🥹