He takes a breath. The room holds it with him.

“I’m not afraid to fall… I’m afraid to land and be the same.”

The room is a terrarium of old thoughts. Sticky floor, lava lamp bubbling like a dying galaxy. Mac leans back on a thrifted couch, hoodie strings pulled tight, making a cage for his face. In his hand, a red balloon — not helium-taut, but sagging, a little wrinkled, like a lung that’s given up.