It happens fast. And yet, somehow, it happens slow.

One moment, you are flying. The wind against your skin, the world stretched wide before you, your feet light, your breath free. Fast. Weightless. Untouchable.

Then, the shift. A wrong step. A wheel catching where it shouldn’t. The sudden, sharp understanding that you are about to fall.

I lunge.

I try.

Forgetting for just one second that I cannot hold you, cannot help you, And then—

The world turns over. The sky tilts, the ground rises. A stomach-lurching moment of suspension where time stretches thin. And then it snaps.

Your body hits the pavement, the dirt, the grass—whatever it is, it is hard. Unforgiving. Pain explodes in a white-hot burst, but worse than that—worse than any of it—is the breath that is no longer there.

You gasp. Nothing comes.

Panic flares, quick and sharp. The world tunnels to a pinpoint, every nerve sparking with alarm. Your body tenses, your lungs strain. You cannot breathe.

It is in this moment, wide-eyed, desperate and fighting for air that you realize: You are alone.

The house stands quiet behind you. Your mother is inside, in bed, the way she so often is these days. The way she was this morning, this afternoon, yesterday, the day before that.

Your father is out doing “The Work” as he likes to call it. He had a mentor he met with once a month but lately it’s been once a week or more that he takes off to meet up with this mentor and do The Work.

There is no one here to help you but you.

Your fingers press into the dirt, fists clenching, body heaving forward, urging your lungs to remember what to do. Breathe. Come on!

And then—

Air. A gasping breath. The burn of oxygen flooding back in. Relief, sharp and staggering.

You cough, push yourself up, press trembling hands against scraped knees. You do not cry. You wipe your face, your hands, the dust from your clothes.

You are not fine. But you will be.

I hover, useless, watching as you steady yourself, as you test your weight, as you keep going.

Your mother does not stir. Your father will not ask. The house remains still.

And I realize—

I am not the only ghost here.