It started as a joke.
Something so overdramatic it couldn't possibly be real.
Her chin tilted upward, eyes following the open stretch of sky as if measuring the impossible. A playful hum touched her voice, but there was something searching beneath it.
"What if I fell from the sky?"
She glanced at him, half-smiling. Testing the absurdity. Testing the promise.
He didn't laugh.
Instead, with the same quiet certainty he'd used every time before, he said:
"Then I'd grab a parachute and jump after you."
A beat of silence followed.
Not awkward. Not unsure.
Heavy. Sacred.
And in that hush, reality blurred into symbolism.
In her mind, the world shifted.
She was no longer standing safely beside him — she was falling.
High above the earth, surrounded by endless blue, wind screaming past her ears as gravity claimed her completely. Hair whipping. Breath stolen. Arms reaching toward nothing.
And then —
Above her.
A figure tearing through the sky.
Jedson.
He leapt without hesitation. No guarantee. No certainty of survival. Just instinct. Devotion. Motion fueled by one singular truth: she was falling.
The air became a battlefield between gravity and love.
He reached her. Fingers grasping fabric. Arms closing around her mid-fall.
And as the world rushed past them, suspended between clouds and earth, his hold never wavered.
In that impossible moment, it no longer mattered whether they would survive the descent.
He had chosen to follow her anyway.
To fall with her.
To be the ground she could not reach alone.
And as they merged into one silhouette against the vast sky — her body cradled in his, his face set with unwavering resolve — the scene froze, eternal and symbolic.
A living echo of their promise.
The moment the world would one day see on the cover of their story.
Not laughter now. Not teasing.
Just silence — and the quiet understanding that what they carried between them had passed the realm of play entirely.