(Warning: Sensitive topic.)
I've always believe that the end always announced themselves before arriving.
Thay arrive violently, loud, shut doors, raised voice, thunder tearing through the sky. This is the tale we're made to believe. What we expect. But tonight is different, calm and gentle— a peaceful end. It stand besides me, no rush, no urgency, like an old friend who knows my name but speaks not of it
Tonight's air is cold enough to accumulate clear though. It keeps reminding me of it's presence. Reminding me it's till here.
The city stretch before me, a scatter of dim light like uncertain star. From this height, everything looked smaller, brighter even. Problem dissolve, people blur, emotions losses it's edge.
I wonder. Is this how Gods feel when they look down? I would never truly know.
I lean my arm against the railing, resting my weight there. The metal hums softly, as if responding to me. It doesn't judge, it doesn't accuse, a rare trait of kindness now lost to time.
Time.
It move onwards without permission. How it drags us forward even when our feets lag behind, even when our heart lags behind. I think about all the versions of me that had carried away, the versions that moved on. The me who believe tomorrow was a promise. The me who thinks effort guaranteed reward. Me who uncovered that none of those things were true.
They're all gone now. Folded neatly into memory like paper no one ever bothers to read.
I tried to remember when the weight all began. Not a single moment, but the slow accumulation of things left unsaid, opportunities missed, apologize shared to late.
It's funny really. How life doesn't break us all at once. Instead, it chips away, patiently, until one day, you realize you have been standing in the ruins for years.
I used to think resilience and defiance was loud, that survival meant shouting into the dark, demanding answers, refusing to kneel. But recently, resilience feels quieter, endurance without an applaud. Like waking up everyday and pretending the ache in your chest is manageable.
I'm tired of pretending.
The wind moves through me, not around, for a moment, I feel hollow, like a flute abandoned by its musician. I wonder who was supposed to play my flute, give my emptiness meaning.
I closed my eyes, taking in the air. It felt good, it felt refreshing. Memories flicker, not the grand type, but the small things, fragile ones. The types that slips through your fingers if not held tightly enough.
I wonder if memories miss me.
People often say that life feels like a story, no one talk enough on how it feels like a draft rather,—ink spilled, pages torn, sentences abandoned half way through. I guess this is a pause, a breath held between chapters.
I know that with or without me, the pages of life will continue to turn. Perhaps, that just me seeking comfort.
I look down, not because I am searching for anything, but because gravity insists. The ground feels so impossibly far away, like a concept rather than a destination. The distance humbles me. It reminds me how small a body truly is, how easily it can be misplaced in the grand accounting of the world.
I imagine what tomorrow will look like without me in it. The sun will rise, obedient as always. Someone will forget to set an alarm. Someone else will remember to water a plant.
Somewhere, a stranger will laugh for the first time in weeks. Life does not stop for absences. It absorbs them.
There is relief in that to.
I rest my forehead against the cold metal and exhale. My breath fogs briefly, then vanishes. Proof of existence erased in seconds. I find myself envying it. To be present without permanence. To touch the world and leave no wound.
I think of all the words I never said, all the feelings I folded away to make others comfortable. I carried them like stones in my pockets, convinced they made me stronger. But stones only pull you downward in the end.
If there is another life waiting, another chance arranged by some careless universe—I hope it is lighter. I hope I am born without this constant sense of being misaligned, like furniture placed wrong in a room no one wants to enter. I hope my heart fits its ribcage better next time.
A strange calm settles over me, heavy but not cruel. It feels like the moment after crying, when the body gives up resistance and simply accepts the quiet.
I did not come here searching for drama. I came because I wanted to listen—to the wind, to the city, to the silence that has been calling my name for years.
I straighten slowly.
For the first time in a long while, I am not afraid of what comes next. Fear requires imagination, and I am out of imagined futures, I'm out of everything. All that remains is this moment, balanced delicately between staying and leaving, between holding on and letting go.
If someone were watching, they might think I am admiring the view.
Perhaps I am.
I take one last breath, not as a goodbye, but as an acknowledgment. Of pain endured. Of love felt, however briefly. Of existence, flawed and fleeting and unbearably human.
Whatever waits beyond this moment, I hope it knows that I tried.
And if the world remembers me at all, let it be as something quiet, like a ripple that disappears before it can be measured, like a word spoken softly enough to be mistaken for the wind.
I smiled.
The wind became harsh. I have never felt this weightless before, true freedom.