The laughter slipped beneath my skin, scorching the silence like flames without smoke. Then—stillness. I turned. My heart pounded too fast. A small voice cried out, and I couldn't tell if it belonged to a child… or to me.
Allison, I saw her small body, her braids, and her tiny hands covered in raw wounds. She was trapped in a circle of fire, with nowhere to run.
I tried to scream—but no sound came out. Only a choking sensation rose in my throat, thick as smoke.
A tall figure in the shadows pointed at me. His face blurred—but his voice was sharp, too familiar. "This is your fault."
The ground split open beneath me. I fell. The scene blurred. His voice dissolved into the wind.
Then I jolted awake, breathless, with cold sweat dripping down my forehead. My heart raced; my body was still caught in the sensation of falling.
Maybe the dream was my body's way of telling me it would happen again. That I'll fall again.
But even with my eyes open, the dream didn't leave me. It clung like a shadow—too close, too heavy.
When I arrived at school, everything looked too normal. The world had no idea what was coming tonight. Students laughed in the halls as if visions weren't hovering above us.
Maybe I was the only one who felt it was real.
And for one fleeting moment, I let myself forget until I saw him.
Jace. He was already standing by the entrance to the art wing, leaning against the wall, watching me. It looked like he'd been waiting.
"Hey," he said softly. "Sorry, I waited for you."
I didn't know if he was waiting for the presentation—or for something else. Maybe I just imagined it.
He handed me one of the paintings. "Is this supposed to be you?" I asked, managing a worn-out smile.
"Yeah… I found this flower on a family hike," he said.
Now I saw it. The red, green, and brown mirrored his colors. His confused heart. He tucked sadness behind his smile—maybe even truths he didn't know how to say.
Maybe he felt more than he let on. But I didn't comment. I just nodded, and when I picked up my painting, I mumbled, "It's not the final version; I'm still working on it."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him—Oliver. Approaching. And for a second, all noise and thought disappeared. The world shrank down to his presence.
Today might be normal. Quiet.
But Oliver never waited for silence. Only for me.
"With me. Now." His voice was too steady. He didn't ask if I was ready. He didn't say where we were going.
I followed. My heart didn't just beat—it galloped. He led me down a side path into the woods. No pool this time. No water. Only winter winds and a clearing stretched into the distance.
And then—he grabbed me. Firmly. No question. And took off.
My wings didn't show. They rarely did. Not since that night I tried to fly… and fell into silence. They curl into my skin, hidden as if they were afraid.
He carried me into the sky. I held on to him, even with all the feelings he stirred in me: fear, pain, and loneliness. Yet, a part of me still wondered, does he care? And if he does… why does it hurt so much?
This may be another test.
Then he spoke. "You don't know how to fly."
"I don't know a lot of things," I said, trying to sound strong—but the air shattered my words before they reached him.
"What you feel—that's what holds you up. Not me."
"And what if what I feel… is fear?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at me.
And then—he let go.
No warning. No word. No promise. Just release me. Trusted me—or tested me. Maybe both.
Either way, neither felt anything close to an embrace.
A second of silence. A moment of choice. Part of me wanted to scream, Catch me! Part of me thought of Abigail. But this time… no one pushed me—just quiet betrayal.
I fell.
Everything in me wanted to fight—but my body didn't respond. It accepted disbelief. It didn't scream. It didn't beg.
Only the wind burned my face. Only the silence sliced through my ears—only me.
The water neared. The wind slammed against my ribs.
And all of me became one question: Did he let me go to help me fly—or to see if I'd fall?
He almost moved. Almost reached for me—then stopped.
His gaze wasn't cruel. But it wasn't afraid to lose me either. Something in between—as if he believed I could carry this before he ever thought of catching me.
In that moment, instead of fear, I felt profound stillness—a quiet strength. I didn't ask him to save me; I wasn't chasing triumph.
I just needed to know I could.
Then his voice, soft, carried by the cold wind: "I told you—only you can."
And somehow—I didn't crash.
Maybe I'm not learning to fly with wings. Maybe I'm learning to fall—again and again. And with each fall, I become less afraid.
And sometimes… that's all it takes to start rising. Even when your heart still trembles.