Localized Levitation

It was Monday morning, Charlie wakes up six inches above his mattress.

He blinks at the ceiling, waiting for the rest of him to settle. It doesn’t. His blanket floats beneath him like a politely folded cloud. His arms drift when he moves them, slow and syrupy.

“Huh,” he says.

From the bathroom, Becky calls, “You up?”

“Yeah,” Charlie answers. “Just… stretching.”

He experiments with a careful roll and glides sideways until his shoulder bumps the wall. The contact steadies him. He pushes down and floats toward the floor, toes grazing the carpet without committing.

This seems inconvenient, but not catastrophic.

At breakfast, Becky scrolls her phone while spreading jam on toast. Charlie grips the back of his chair and lowers himself into it. He hovers an inch above the seat. The chair does not object.

“You’re drifting,” Becky says without looking up.

“I noticed,” Charlie replies. “Must be pressure or something.”

“Mm,” she says. “It’s trending.”

He leans to see her screen. A headline reads: Localized Levitation Continues in Select Neighborhoods. Underneath is a photo of a woman watering her garden, suspended gently over her roses. The caption describes her as “adjusting well.”

“Good for her,” Charlie says.

Becky slides his plate toward him. The toast floats briefly before he pins it with a finger.

“You should eat,” she says. “You’ve got that meeting with Drummond.”

Charlie sighs. “I forgot about Drummond.”

“You always forget about Drummond.”

They eat in companionable silence, their feet brushing the air where the floor used to be reliable. Outside the window, a man walks his dog. The dog remains grounded. The man drifts slightly, leash angled upward like a loose balloon string.

At work, the lobby of Drummond’s building is filled with people calmly negotiating altitude. A receptionist hovers behind the desk, ankles crossed midair.

“Morning, Charlie,” she says. “Fourth floor’s a little high today. Take the stairs if you can.”

The stairs are a suggestion more than a structure. Each step launches him gently upward. By the time he reaches the fourth floor, he’s breathing hard, suspended near the ceiling tiles.

Drummond’s office door is open. Drummond sits at his desk, perfectly grounded, papers stacked in disciplined towers.

“You’re floating again,” Drummond says, not looking up.

“Just a bit,” Charlie answers. “Neighborhood thing.”

Drummond makes a note. “Try to keep it contained during the presentation.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They review charts that refuse to stay flat. The pages curl upward, eager to join Charlie. Drummond smooths them with a paperweight shaped like a globe.

“The elites are concerned,” Drummond says. “They think it’s a messaging issue.”

Charlie nods seriously. “Of course.”

“If people see others floating and assume it means something, productivity dips.”

“Right,” Charlie says. “We wouldn’t want that.”

Drummond steeples his fingers. “The believers are already calling it an ascension event. The sleepers say it’s a hoax.”

“And us?” Charlie asks.

Drummond finally looks at him. “We say it’s weather.”

Charlie writes this down.

At lunch, he meets Tommy and Lacey at their usual café. The chairs are tethered to the floor with discreet straps. Tommy bobs slightly as he chews.

“It’s not so bad,” Tommy says. “My back hasn’t hurt all week.”

“That’s because your spine’s not doing anything,” Lacey replies. She stirs her soup, which forms a trembling sphere above the bowl. She sips from the air. “I heard the elites are installing anchors in their offices.”

Charlie shrugs. “Drummond says it’s temporary.”

“Everything’s temporary,” Tommy says brightly.

A woman drifts past the window, upside down, reading a book. No one comments.

On the street, posters have appeared overnight. STAY CALM. STAY LEVEL. A smiling figure demonstrates proper hovering posture. The believers have added handwritten notes in the margins: WE WERE MEANT FOR THIS. The sleepers have crossed them out: SIT DOWN.

That evening, Becky is watching a panel discussion. The experts float in a tidy row.

“There’s no evidence this is harmful,” one says. “People are adapting.”

Another nods. “Humans are remarkably flexible.”

A third expert spins slowly, untethered. “We’ve always suspected gravity was more social than physical.”

Becky mutes the TV. “Dinner?”

They eat pasta that refuses the plate. Charlie chases a noodle through the air. Becky catches it deftly with her fork.

“You’re getting better,” she says.

“Practice,” he answers.

After dinner, they visit Charlie’s mother. Her house is full of furniture strapped down like luggage. She sits in her armchair, hovering comfortably.

“It reminds me of swimming,” she says. “Without the water.”

“That’s nice, Mom,” Charlie says.

The news plays softly in the background. A ticker scrolls: LEVITATION ZONES EXPANDING. OFFICIALS URGE ROUTINE.

“Are you scared?” Becky asks her.

Charlie’s mother considers. “Of what?”

Becky opens her mouth, then closes it. “Nothing,” she says. “Just asking.”

They drink tea from cups with lids. Outside, the sky is full of people moving carefully through their evenings, lights glowing in floating windows.

On Wednesday, Charlie notices he no longer touches the floor at all. He moves by pushing gently off surfaces, navigating by memory. His coworkers do the same. Meetings continue. Emails are sent. Drummond compliments his quarterly projections.

“You’ve stabilized,” Drummond says approvingly.

“Thank you,” Charlie replies.

The elites release a statement praising public cooperation. The believers gather in parks, drifting together in quiet circles. The sleepers hold press conferences from weighted chairs.

That night, Charlie lies in bed, suspended above the sheets. Becky floats beside him, her hair fanning gently.

“Do you think we’ll come down?” he asks.

“Eventually,” she says. “Everything evens out.”

He nods. This sounds right.

Through the window, the city hums at a new altitude. Traffic lights blink at empty intersections. A bus glides past, passengers drifting calmly inside.

Charlie closes his eyes. His body sways in the dark, unmoored but steady. The wrongness of it presses softly against his ribs, like a thought he chooses not to finish.

In the morning, he will wake higher. He will brush his teeth in midair. He will go to work and discuss weather. Becky will make toast that floats politely between them.

They will adjust.

They already have.