Air is gone so suddenly and your lungs are shriveled and small.
You thought that it would change things, clinging to the railing and refusing to leave the unfeeling but homey steel frame. You thought they would give up, go out themselves, leave you to be unchanged. You do not matter to other people. Your choices are not significant to them. You wanted to unchoose, and they should let you.
"Committment," they mumble (or shout). They wear their white suits unnaturally; yours is stained with strawberry ice cream. You hid in the freezer room, and they found the meat and ordered you out.
"The moon really does have no air," you gasp. The surface shines brighter than the atmosphere. You tumble: stars burn below you, and the weightless rocks pile around your head.