The sky stretched endlessly, and the air was light, as if the very act of flying could erase all the weight of the world. Memories surfaced—perfect, fleeting moments—first kisses, late-night laughter, summers that felt infinite. Everything is exactly as it should be.

The future seemed clear, a continuation of this peace. Days filled with joy, love, and adventure. This is how it’s supposed to end, the thought lingered, warm and reassuring.

But then, a strange sensation. Wait... A flash of recognition. The weight of déjà vu hit like a sudden gust. I’ve been here before.

The realization struck quickly—this wasn’t new. The feeling of falling, the rush of wind, the absence of a parachute. It’s happening.

The ground grew closer, fast. There was no time to prepare. No safety net. Just the endless pull of gravity.

But then, just before impact, everything shifted. The fall softened, and the earth beneath was no longer rushing up. Instead, there was a gentle landing—on something light, something soft. A cloud. A perfect, soft cushion.

And with a deep, relieved breath, the smile appeared. Because sometimes, a fall is just a reminder of how much flying is truly loved.

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