No one ever warned him that freedom could be lonely.

Daedalus had given him wings, but not answers—taught him how to fly, not how to stay grounded. So Icarus flew. Again and again, chasing sunlit edges and impossible dreams.

Then he met you.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t marvel at his wings or beg him not to rise too high. You simply stood on the cliffside, arms crossed, eyes knowing.

You were gravity and stormlight, a pull more powerful than any sun.

And still… he wanted both.

Icarus stepped closer, feathers catching wind, voice softer now.

“If I fall,” he whispered, “would you catch me?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him like he was already burning.

And maybe he was.

But if falling meant falling into you— Then maybe it was worth it.

Maybe this time, he’d fly not just to escape.

But to find a reason to stay.