Blair
The world looks smaller from up here.
People too.
The rooftop's cold, the ledge is cracked, and I'm drunk enough not to care. My dress is ripped on one side, and my boots are still muddy from wherever the hell I was an hour ago. I think I lost my phone. Or maybe I threw it. Doesn't matter.
There's a bottle of cheap whiskey next to me. Three cigarettes lit at once between my fingers. My lipstick's smudged, my vision's worse, and my heartbeat's a little slow.
It's perfect.
I swing one leg over the ledge and lean forward just enough to feel the wind kiss my face.
This high up, everything's quiet. No one yelling. No one touching. No one begging me to be something I'm not.
I'm alone.
Finally.
Then I hear him.
A soft shuffle of shoes on gravel. Hesitant. Careful. Like he's afraid I'll jump or explode or both.
I don't turn. I know it's him.
The only guy in this entire damn place who doesn't talk to me like I'm something to fix or fuck.
Atlas Reed.
I take a long drag and let the smoke leak out of my nose.
"Didn't take you for the rooftop type, professor."
Silence.
Then his voice. Low. Careful. "You're drunk."
"Gold star," I say, raising my bottle in mock celebration. "Go on. Tell me I'm a disaster. That I smell like a distillery and a forest fire. Everyone else does."
He doesn't say anything.
I finally turn my head. He's standing a few feet away, hoodie on, hands in his pockets, that unreadable look plastered across his face like always.
He looks like a ghost. Or maybe I do.
"What? Gonna save me now?" I smirk. "That your thing?"
"I don't save people," he says quietly.
I laugh. It's a hollow, bitter sound. "Good. I don't wanna be saved."
I lean back just a little, just enough to make him tense. I see it in his shoulders, the way his jaw twitches like he's fighting some instinct to reach out.
"I just came to make sure you didn't fall," he mutters.
"Why?" I ask. "So you can go back to your perfect notes and perfectly balanced life knowing the messed-up girl didn't go splat tonight?"
"No," he says. "So I can sleep."
We sit in silence after that.
Me, reeking of smoke and bruises and all the wrong decisions.
Him, quiet as ever. Still watching.
He doesn't leave.
And for some reason, that makes it worse.