It began just after dawn—when the birds sang and the sun stretched its golden fingers across the sky. Suddenly, the world tilted sideways, and then, softly, everything began to float.
I stood in my room, my feet lifting off the cold tiles, as the book in my hand drifted upward, spinning slowly like a leaf in a gentle breeze. I blinked, startled, and then laughed—a sound that floated around me like bubbles.
Outside, leaves twirled like dancers in a silent waltz. Cars hovered inches above the road, and children soared through the air, arms wide like birds discovering flight for the first time. The city became a dreamscape, where gravity’s steady hands had vanished. I felt weightless, free from the earth’s pull and the heaviness in my heart. I floated higher, chasing the drifting petals of a wildflower.
But soon, the thrill gave way to a strange longing — a need to feel solid, to be anchored. Without gravity, the world was wonderful but unmoored, like a song without rhythm. As twilight painted the sky with streaks of lavender and rose, gravity yawned and stretched, returning to its eternal vigil. Slowly, my feet brushed the ground, my heart settling like a stone sinking in clear water. I smiled, knowing the world would always pull me back—steady, true, and unyielding. And maybe, I thought, that is where true freedom begins.