Inspired by “Hemit the Frog ” — MARINA

Whenever Karma was around, you shrank yourself without meaning to. You watered down your voice, your laugh, your opinions — all to avoid looking “too much,” too loud, too messy. With him, you put on a mask of humor and indifference, a clown’s crown covering the storm underneath. But the pressure built quietly: every smile too forced, every laugh too hollow, every moment of pretending stacking onto the last until it felt like something inside you would burst. People talked. They said you “used to be so kind.” They didn’t know that kindness had been worn down by years of swallowing emotions that never stayed small. They didn’t know how hard it was to breathe when your thoughts turned against you. They didn’t know how often you feared that something dark and restless inside you was steering the wheel.

Karma understood more than he admitted — especially the part where your heart rose too fast and shattered too soon. The two of you were almost the same kind of broken: wrong people in the wrong room, making the wrong kind of sparks. You didn’t fit the roles you were given, and Karma never played by the script people expected. You were both glass balloons pretending to be steel. And eventually, one of you was bound to pop.

It happened during a group discussion in class. Someone made a joke — a stupid, casual remark about how “people like you always get overwhelmed,” like your emotions were an inconvenience they had to tiptoe around. The room laughed. You did too, too brightly, too quickly, your smile cracking at the edges. Karma didn’t laugh. He just watched. You tried to steady your breathing, but your chest tightened anyway. Your hands shook under the desk, fingers digging crescents into your palms. The heat rose fast, panic and anger mixing in a way that felt volatile. You’d been quiet too long. You’d been holding your breath for weeks. You felt it coming — the explosion the song talks about. Your chair scraped the floor as you stood a little too suddenly. Heads turned. Your mask slipped entirely, revealing the storm beneath, and you hated how naked it felt — how everyone could see the part of you you always hid.

Karma pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours. He recognized the look. He’d worn it himself too many times. He stepped toward you, giving the room a warning glare that shut every whisper down. “Glass balloon moment,” he muttered under his breath as he reached you, tone dark but not unkind. Your breath was uneven, eyes stinging, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. You were seconds away from cracking open in front of everyone.

Karma lifted a hand—not touching, but close enough that you could lean into it if you wanted. Close enough to block the stares. Close enough to let you know he wasn’t moving unless you told him to. “You’re about to explode,” he said softly. “Let’s get out before you shatter.”

The room fell silent. Your pulse hammered. Your throat burned. Your heart felt like a fragile balloon pulled too high. You hadn’t moved yet. You hadn’t chosen whether to run, to break, or to let Karma pull you out of the room. He waited — patient, steady, understanding in a way that scared you. The glass balloon trembled. And the scene ended on the edge of bursting.