The stone doesn’t sink; it shatters on impact. The ripples aren’t gentle waves of disturbance, but jagged fissures that spread outward faster than I can name them.

I try to write the word *break*, but my hand refuses to cooperate. The letters form wrong—*b-e-k-ae*. A stutter in the ink, a hiccup in the rhythm. Even language is cracking now. How do you say “the world ended and began again all at once” when your throat feels like it’s filled with gravel?

I stare at the smudge. It looks less like a wound and more like an opening. Not a tear to be feared, but a door I didn’t know was there until now. The hum is gone, replaced by a high-pitched whine that only lives in my teeth. Is this what it means to wake up? To realize the sanctuary was just a room I’d locked myself inside while the rest of the world screamed outside the window?

*Drift.*
*Shatter.*
*Enough?*

I push the pen down harder, forcing another line across the page. It skids sideways. *Resistance*.

Maybe the drift wasn’t about going somewhere. Maybe it was just waiting for something to hit so hard that you finally had to move. The silence isn’t peaceful anymore; it’s a held breath, and I’m tired of holding it in.

I take a step back from the desk. My shadow stretches long against the wall, but it doesn’t match my pose exactly. One shoulder is squared off, rigid where it should be slumped. The reflection in the darkened window shows a stranger—one who knows that perfect balance is just another kind of violence if you don’t have to work for your chaos.

I grab a fresh sheet. No more tracing dust motes. No more listening to the hum.

Here is where I start:
*The crack sounds like a bird learning to fly.*