She was free falling out the window. The red curtains rushed out after her but were too late. The wind left her hands extended upward, straining to grasp hold of them. But it was too late, the curtains couldn't blow in the wind forever. She watched them as they swung back inside, preparing themselves for the next one.

Her hands didn't fall back, though. Her body was pulled down without a fight, except for her hands. They were struggling, those hands. Struggling to find anything to hold on to. She watched the tips of her fingers move from side to side, like the red curtains when there was a breeze strong enough to provoke them. Inching, plummeting down to the ground, she felt her fingers go numb. She was dying even before she hit rock bottom.

She looked back up to the shrinking curtains. They were brighter still, hanging out the window. They were much brighter. Her eyes widened. The tips of her fingers tingled.

An anonymous gust of wind rippled through them. Her chest ached while falling. Breathing as she fell felt inappropriate, so she held her breath. She wasn't thinking about who was to be the first to find the opened window, to see her broken body upon the cracked pavement. She didn't think about missing her afternoon show or her walk outside. Those immaculate curtains mocked her, scoffed at he from above; but she wasn't thinking of them.

Her hair covered her face. This numbness subdued her panic, her regret. This numbness she had been pining so long for. She could still see the color red and its translucent hue. They were miles above her now, the curtains. Slowly, her hands fell beside her, as if gravity pushed them away.

Malice flew from her, along with remorse. She didn't care who missed her. She didn't worry about who would attend her death-day. Gravity was toying with her, making her float for half a second more, to make the landing worse. Or to make her feel sorry. She refused to look down. She had always been afraid of heights. Until a few months ago when she though she had outgrown it. It was a foolish conjecture, assuming she had conquered fear.

However, in a few moments, she could turn her head around and not be afraid at all. It was almost too late to be afraid.

Her hands were carried upward again to the window. The only thing to grab on to anymore was the thinning air. The red curtains were blown outwards again. She tried to crane her neck upwards but was constricted. Perhaps it was an illusion. Perhaps that tug in her chest was regret after all. Her fingers twitched, stretching forward.

She tried not to care anymore because it was too late. She tried not to summon strength, because it wouldn't be right. It wasn't about if she cared or didn't care. It wasn't her choice after all.

She felt her back implode into the pavement. The bleeding organs bursted open on impact. Her chest tugged upward again, but it was only once more. Her fingers twitched, her skull crashing down to be sprayed everywhere. Her hair came down first, providing a disappointing pillow of soft down. The red curtains swayed outward. Her eyes widened. She gasped.

What she wasn't thinking about was her collection of books. What she wasn't thinking about was her outstretched hands. They fell to her sides, opened wide and warmer than ever. As the base of her neck snapped and her vision faded, she saw that the red curtains were blowing outside, were reaching down towards her.

She wasn't thinking about the red curtains, though. Her skull was smashed against the floor and she didn't think about how beautiful the breeze felt, or how wonderful the amaryllises smelled today. What she thought about was him. She wondered if he missed her. She questioned if he would be would attend her funeral. What she was thinking about was if he was going to be the first to find her broken on the pavement, or if he had taken his walk today. She thought if he would reach out towards her as he leaned out the window. She thought about how beautiful his breath felt. She thought about how wonderful he probably smelled today. That was all she thought about it. She thought about him.