The silence lingered, stretching thin between us like a held breath.
Alice drifted toward the edge of the rooftop and lowered herself onto the ledge without a word, one leg dangling into the night air like she didn't care how far the fall was. Then she glanced back—just a flick of her eyes—and it felt like an invitation. Not a smile. Not a gesture. Just a look.
I joined her.
Carefully. Cautiously. Sitting beside her with only a sliver of space between us, like anything closer might collapse whatever was holding me together. The city buzzed far below, but up here, it was quiet. Still. She looked out at the skyline, at the blinking lights and the blur of life beneath us.
I couldn't look at her.
Not yet.
Something twisted inside me—tight, raw. Was it guilt? Helplessness? I couldn't tell. All I knew was the weight in my chest, the way my throat ached with things I didn't know how to say. My hands were steady now, but it didn't feel like calm.
I opened my mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but she turned to me before the words could form, cutting through the quiet.
"Anyway… thanks, Adam."
Her voice was soft. Awkward, almost. Like the words didn't quite know how to land.
And there it was—barely visible in the rooftop's washed-out glow, but unmistakable—a faint flush blooming across her cheeks.
It wasn't dramatic, not the kind of thing that screamed emotion. But on Alice? It felt loud.
I froze.
Alice was… thanking me?
My brain short-circuited. Just flatlined completely. I sat there like an idiot, blinking at her, trying to reboot my thoughts. For a second, I honestly thought I'd imagined it. That the wind had whispered wrong. That I'd finally tipped into some weird dream state, rooftop air too thin for sense.
But she didn't take it back.
She didn't look at me, either—eyes fixed on the horizon, on the blurry chaos of city lights stretching into forever.
She acted like it hadn't even cost her something to say it. Like she hadn't just cracked open whatever armor she wore like a second skin.
I wanted to say something back—you're welcome, maybe, or anytime. Something cool. Or calm. Or at least coherent.
But I couldn't.
Because in that exact moment, something inside me warmed like sunlight on stone.
I fought it—I did—but the smile came anyway.
Slow, traitorous.
I tightened my jaw, bit down on it, shoved my hands into my pockets like that might anchor me—but still, the corner of my mouth pulled upward, just enough to feel it.
Just enough to betray me.
Her eyes flicked back to me—and instantly, her expression shifted.
It was subtle at first. A tilt of the head. A squint.
And then, full-blown exasperation.
"Stop it, Adam. It's creepy," she said, the sarcasm dripping off each word like honey with a bite.
She didn't even give me time to recover before twisting the knife.
"It's not like it's the first time someone's ever thanked you."
The words landed with a grin, sharp-edged but playful.
But I felt the heat crawl up the back of my neck anyway.
I looked down at my hands, suddenly very interested in the chipped concrete beneath our feet.
The stupid smile was long gone, replaced with something closer to shame.
Because the truth was, it might have been the first time someone thanked me like that.
And if not the first… then close.
I didn't respond. Couldn't.
I just sat there, silent, shoulders tensed, hoping the wind would carry the moment away before she could say anything else.
But Alice had never been great at leaving things alone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her expression soften—just slightly. The mockery faded, replaced by something that almost looked like… pity.
She leaned in a little, voice quieter now.
"No way. You're lying, right?"
There wasn't sarcasm in her tone this time. Just disbelief.
Real.
Raw.
Like she'd accidentally opened a door she hadn't meant to knock on.
And I didn't know what to say.
Because part of me wanted to laugh it off, to throw a joke into the gap between us and seal it shut.
But the other part—the one that still remembered being ten years old and alone in a house full of silence—just looked away.
And didn't answer.
But deep down, I knew the conversation shouldn't go any further. Not tonight. Not like this.
I felt the words rising in my throat anyway, aching to escape, to finally be something outside of me.
But before I could speak, Alice cut in again—gently this time.
"You don't have to say it, Adam. No one's forcing you."
Her voice wasn't sharp now. It was soft, distant. Like she was talking to the city more than me.
"Everyone has a past they want to forget."
She didn't look at me as she spoke.
Just stared out over the silent skyline, where the city lights blurred into the night like stars that had lost their way.
Her face had changed—just a little. But I saw it. A quiet sorrow had crept in, folding into her features like a shadow that had always been there, just waiting for the right light.
I think I triggered something in her. Something she'd buried deep.
But her words… they gave me courage.
Slowly—almost without thinking—I reached out and placed my hand on top of hers.
She turned to me, startled, eyes searching mine for something I didn't know I was giving away.And I smiled.Not a grin. Not a mask.
Just something real.
"Thanks, Alice."
Her name felt different when I said it now.
Like I finally understood something I hadn't before.
Because sitting here, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, I realized what that feeling was—that strange weight in my chest when she looked at me, when we ran together, when we sat in silence like the world had gone still.
I took a breath, steadying my voice, and let the truth come loose.
"But I want you to know," I said, "my horrible past."
Because she deserved to.
Because if I wanted her to see me—really see me—then I had to stop hiding behind shrugs and half-smiles.
"I don't have a mother," I began. "And my father… he's always busy. He barely ever came home. His work, his research—it always came first."
She didn't speak.She just listened.
"Because of that, I was never in one place for long. Always moving. Always starting over. Which meant I never had time to make friends. Not real ones."
Or maybe, I thought bitterly, I just stopped trying.
"There were places," I added, the words tightening in my throat, "where I was bullied.
Not just by kids—by teachers too. Because no one ever came to parent meetings.
No one ever showed up for me. And after a while… people notice that.
They treat you different. Like you don't matter."
I paused, looking down at our hands, still resting together in the space between us.
"And that's how I ended up here."
The last part came out quieter than the rest, like the city might swallow it before it reached her.
Like if I didn't say it fast enough, it'd vanish into the night like everything else I'd lost.
But then—something shifted.
Before I could brace for silence or a reply or anything at all, I felt a sudden pull.
Alice moved—quick, firm, certain.
Her arms wrapped around me in one smooth motion, no hesitation, no warning.
Just warmth.
Real and solid and immediate.
One second I was staring at the skyline, trying to pretend my voice hadn't cracked—and the next, I was in her arms.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move.
My brain couldn't catch up.
But then my chest caved in, like something inside me had been waiting for this—for someone.
And I couldn't hold it in anymore.
So I hugged her back.
Not politely.Not like a thank you or a goodbye.
It was desperate.Grateful.Wordless.
Her arms were smaller than mine, but they held me like she could carry the weight I'd been dragging behind me for years.
Like she understood it.
Like she wasn't afraid of it.
Neither of us said anything.
We didn't need to.
The city kept humming around us, far away and unimportant.
And in that rooftop silence, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Safe.
Like maybe, for the first time, I wasn't the only one carrying my story.