I'm sitting on the rooftop of my apartment building the night before I leave for Uni. I think that I'm subconsciously waiting for you to come over and say, "goodbye," even though I know I have a higher chance of falling off of the slope-less roof than seeing you after how badly things ended between us.
As usual, I was right about one too many boyfriends, about one too many girlfriends, about one too many people you were trying to change yourself for. I told you that if you wanted to destroy yourself for everyone around you, especially the people who didn't deserve to have you in their miserable existences, that I wouldn't be able to sit there and watch you deteriorate into nothing.
You didn't think I'd go through with it.
It's been two years since the last time I spoke to you, a year and a half since that last time you called me, two weeks since the last time I wrote to you (and didn't send it), and one and a half hours since I wished that I didn't let you go.
It seems like that's all I'm wishing about anymore.
Even if I did get the chance to talk to you, I don't think that you'd bother trying to listen to me, even when I would tell you that I miss you more than life. You'd probably cross your arms over your chest, look down with tears in your eyes, turn away from me, and tell me to fuck off.
I wouldn't even blame you for it. I'd kind of expect it.
My legs dangling off of the roof bounce against the concrete walls. Looking down from the top of a ten story building should probably be frightening, but it's not. I've looked death in the face so many times and lived to tell the tale that I'm not even worried about the nonexistent possibility of falling.
Speaking of falling, I remember when I talked you down off of this roof after we had just turned thirteen. You were standing on the edge, trembling like an autumn leaf. When you turned to look at me, you would have fallen off if I wasn't there to grab your hand and pull you back into reality. When you held onto me, that night became one of the best times of my life, however morbid the memory is.
If only I could get the chance to hold you like that again. I would kill for it.
I hear the door at pseudo-building at the middle of the roof open hesitantly. When I look over my shoulder, you're standing there, tears running down your flushed cheeks.
You tell me, "We need to talk."
I hurriedly rise with one foot practically off the roof, try to catch my wavering balance, and slip off of the building. Not even halfway down, I know that I'm headed into eternity.
Eventually, I collide with the concrete, and the night, and the stars.