He tried to hold it.
Not the room.
The space between things.
The not-leading, not-withdrawing place he had been standing in.
It was harder than he expected.
The next gathering felt strained.
Not hostile.
Delicate.
People watched each other more. Paused longer. Spoke more carefully.
No one wanted to be the one to push.
No one wanted to be the one to drift.
The result was tension.
Not silence.
Friction without movement.
Someone finally broke it.
Not angrily.
Impatiently.
"So… what are we doing tonight?"
The question landed in the center of the room like a weight.
Everyone looked around.
Some looked at him.
He felt it.
The pull.
Not to answer.
To resolve.
He hesitated.
That was enough.
The man who had been steering before stepped in again.
"Well, I thought we could talk about how to make this more useful," he said. "It's been a bit… vague."
A few people nodded.
Not agreement.
Relief.
Usefulness is comfortable.
It gives shape.
He felt something tighten in his chest.
This was how things hardened.
Not by force.
By preference.
Someone else added, "Yeah, maybe we need a topic. Or a structure."
More nods.
The room shifted.
Not toward clarity.
Toward control.
He spoke.
Softly.
"We don't have to make it anything."
A pause.
That wasn't what anyone wanted to hear.
"But then what's the point?" someone asked.
He didn't answer.
Because the answer was personal.
And this wasn't the place for it.
The moment passed.
The conversation moved on without him.
It didn't collapse.
It changed.
People spoke in turns. Followed threads. Built arguments.
It was fine.
It was also not what it had been.
He felt it.
The loss of something unnamed.
Afterward, fewer people lingered.
Fewer smiles.
More efficiency.
As he walked home, the weight sat heavy in his chest.
Not regret.
Recognition.
You can't hold a space open forever if the people inside it want walls.
That night, the record updated.
Middle state unstable.
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he whispered.
Unstable.
Not wrong.
Not failed.
Just unsustainable.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
The fracture wasn't loud.
It didn't shatter.
It bent.
Quietly.
And things that bend quietly often never return to their original shape.