—crashing through a laundry line, getting tangled in a bedsheet, and landing face-first in a dumpster full of expired yogurt.

For one glorious second, I am flying. The city sparkles below me, a sea of headlights and possibilities. I am magnificent. I am unstoppable. I am—

I take a breath. My cape (a repurposed blackout curtain) flaps in the wind. My utility belt (a fanny pack with granola bars and band-aids) feels pathetically lightweight.

But that’s the thing about rookies. We don’t start with the world-ending meteors. We start with the small things. The things that prove we care more than we fear.

Here’s a draft for a short story or opening monologue titled Title: Learning to Fly (One Disaster at a Time)

Tomorrow, I’m buying better shoelaces. “Every hero starts at level one. The trick is surviving your own origin story.”

Being a rookie superhero isn’t about glory. It’s about getting back up, wiping the yogurt off your chin, and realizing that the only thing braver than a perfect landing is a spectacular failure… followed by a second jump.

My name is Leo, and I’ve been a superhero for exactly six days. My superpower? Uncontrollable gravity defiance. Which sounds awesome until you realize it works only when I sneeze.