He stood in the spacesuit that he made himself, fashioned from duct tape and his father’s old sweatsuit that still had galaxy colored paint on it. Alone at the park, he walked, the glass visor hiding his face, along with his tears.

He sat at the bench, the one that his father slept on when Mother kicked him out. In his left hand he held a white balloon.

He watched the pigeons, fat and slow, along with the rest of the people in the city, though these people would never fly.

Today was the day that he broke his model of the universe that hung above his bed. He threw his fist through the galaxy colored walls of his bedroom, creating a black hole that he wished he could be sucked into along with the rest of his broken heart.

Today was the day that he failed his science final and the day that Mother said he’d never amount to anything.

From his bench, across the park, he saw a little girl with a model rocket. She smiled and laughed and looked towards the sky.

He went towards the girl, who tilted her head in awe. He held out his arm arm and she took the white balloon. With a quick nod and a missing-tooth smile, she let go of the white balloon.

Above them, their moon rose, and in his space suit, he flew home.