Adrift. Hopeless. The height of the pinnacle matched with the tug of the fall. Like Icarus, the moment of achievement suppressed by the realization that the trickling sweat down your back is mixed with melting wax.

Plummeting.

“He wanted to be an astronaut,” they say. “He wanted to see the stars.”

A voice screams into the sky, a rage-filled roar made out of determination and tempered by desperation. One word scattered into noise, a syllable stretched into as many as it took to keep the sky from falling.

No.

I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to see the stars. I wanted to prove her wrong.

The edge of atmosphere bends outwards, silhouetting the figure locked inside and taunting him as it refuses to tear. I push, grinding my face against a wall seemingly made of brick and pounding until it feels as if my mind is ready to shatter.

I never saved anything for the swim back.