If I knew what to write about I wouldn't be sitting here, at the top of my apartment building, staring down at the busy night street, contemplating jumping off. Instead, I'd be sitting at my kitchenette counter, writing whatever the hell came to my mind while waiting for my roommate to come home drunk and screw whomever she brought home with her. Then when she'd eventually come into the kitchen with her fuckbuddy of the night, I'd leave to go to the all-night Mom-N-Pop Shop, which is a franchize, for something with caffeine and chocolate in it.

Unfortunately for me, my fidgety fingers couldn't tap something out onto my computer, or write something in my blue journal, or even doodle something on my essay papers. I was stuck thinking about my stupid roommate, and how much I wish that she knew that I loved her. If she knew, maybe she wouldn't be looking for love in a bottle, or a random person, or anything that's not me.

Maybe she could actually want me.

I highly doubt it, which is one of the many reasons why I ended up here, on my roof, sitting on the edge and staring down at the busy New York street. If I were to fall at this angle, it would break my legs. If I dived down head first, I wouldn't live long enough to feel the impact of the concrete.

I rise to my feet, almost losing my balance too early. My tears crash to the street below, and it's one second too late when my roommate opens the door to the roof and asks why I'm here. I turn, one foot off the roof, slip, and collide with the concrete, and the night, and the stars.