"It's not about flying away," she said, her voice steady as the ground beneath trembled slightly, "but staying here when the world decides to tip upside down."

His eyebrows knit together like two wandering skies clashing. "You mean to say it’s the rooted ones that float?"

She chuckled, a sound rich enough to fill the empty air. "Rooted in where, you ask? Perhaps the head isn't bobbing in this unseen ocean. Perhaps it's the heart anchoring the wayward soul."

He considered this as he balanced a glass of sand on his knee, a fleeting vision of an earth made of clouds. "And what if gravity's just a guideline, a gentle shove resisting the urge to wander?"

The note drifted between them, as if penned by invisible hands, revealing only half its intentions.