Sitting at the edge of that same cliff, on that same bench, a feeling creeps down my spine. I feel like I’ve been here before. No, I KNOW that I have. Looking back at it now, the reason I couldn’t remember when or and why, was because I had tried my best to forget it ever happened – that you ever happened.
Sitting all by myself, smoking what’s left of my cigarette, and accidentally ashing it on my pant leg, I remember this very scene: that very tree mere metres down the cliffside, even this very crow who I‘m sure I’ve definitely met before.
“Why did I come here again?” I blurted out, as if expecting an answer from the wind. I sit on that rotting wooden bench, thinking about the rosy sky ahead of me. The sun always comes out after a storm, but does the sun fear the storm? Or does it push through every time?
I get up, wind blowing loose strands of hair onto my face: I’m done running.
As I walk closer to the edge, I hesitate for a heartbeat, unable to believe what I’m about to do. One last puff of my burnt cigarette, and I leap.
It almost feels as peaceful as it does scary. I feel the warmth spreading through my body as I get closer to the sun and my arms turn to wings, and at last I am free.
All that I see when I look back at the cliff is the rotting old bench, and a ghost of our past, as gone as the flame that once lit the cigarette in my hand.