There is a moment between the decision to leave and the certainty of arrival. A body suspended above the water, caught somewhere between the weight it carries and the possibility of letting it go. For a brief second, the ground no longer holds it, but the water has not yet claimed it. Nothing has been escaped completely, and nothing has been reached. I keep thinking about how little separates falling from flying. Perhaps the difference exists only in the way we choose to remember the moment before impact. The same gesture can be an act of surrender or an attempt at freedom, a departure or a return. From a distance, it is impossible to tell. Maybe this is what it means to be midair: to exist without the reassurance of what comes next. To leave something behind without knowing whether you are moving towards anything at all. To accept, even briefly, the absence of a surface beneath your feet. The water will eventually break the silence. The body will have to belong somewhere again. But for now, there is only the interval. And perhaps, for a moment, that is enough.