Letter from the Rooftop
Erika rushed up the stairs, heart pounding wildly, clutching the tray of food in her hands. She knew it was only a matter of time before the others showed up to intimidate her; it wasn't unusual for them to turn her lunch break into a nightmare. But that day, to her surprise, the rooftop door was unlocked, unguarded. A rare chance—one that hardly ever came twice.
She pushed the heavy door open and stepped outside. The fresh air hit her face like an unexpected gift. The sky was clear, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she smiled. Curling up in a corner almost hidden by concrete walls, she pulled her knees to her chest, the tray resting in her lap. Closing her eyes for a moment, she whispered a short prayer of gratitude. Here, in solitude, she could finally eat in peace.
Then—footsteps.
She froze.
It couldn't be. No one ever came up here. None of those spoiled rich kids would dirty their hands climbing all the way up. She shrank even smaller, hugging herself tight. Her heart hammered so loud it rang in her ears.
And then she heard it—a broken, feminine voice, sharp with indignation:
"You said you liked me! You told me I was different… you kissed me, held me in your arms… and now you just want to 'compensate' me, like I'm some prostitute? What's wrong with you?! My family's wealthy too…"
Erika held her breath. She knew that voice—but she had never heard it laced with such pain.
"My, you're loud," Ángel replied, his calmness enough to chill the air. His tone never rose, never faltered; every word landed cold, indifferent. "Look, you seemed interesting… but I've lost that interest. I don't even remember your name."
A silence brimming with fury followed. Footsteps clacked closer, ragged breathing. Then a sudden movement—the girl raised her hand to strike.
Ángel caught it midair. His grip was sharp, merciless, as though her wrist were glass about to shatter.
"If you don't want the money, fine," he leaned closer, his smile not amused but warning. "But don't ask for my attention. You won't have it."
The girl let out a strangled cry, struggling to free herself. Ángel squeezed harder. His gaze darkened, and what slipped from his lips was low, venomous:
"And let this be the first and last time you raise your hand against me. Do it again… and I'll tear them off myself."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Wind whispered through the rooftop walls. Erika, petrified in her hiding spot, could barely breathe. Fear bound her still—but there was something else, something she couldn't control: the strange pull of that hard voice, that dangerous shadow that seemed to swallow everything around it.
She shouldn't have been there. She shouldn't have heard this. But it was too late: she had seen Ángel's true face. And what terrified her most wasn't his cruelty… but the fact that, despite the fear, she couldn't look away.
Erika kept her eyes locked on her food, as though salvation lay in those plain bites of rice and bread. Her heartbeat was so loud she was certain anyone could hear it. She forced her breathing to slow, stretching each inhale, each exhale. She had to stay invisible. She always did.
But the shadow found her.
It fell over her with supernatural quiet, snuffing out the fragile light. Erika shivered. And then, right at her ear, a deep, mocking whisper:
"Boo."
She gasped, the scream trapped in her throat. Her body reacted before her mind did—she flung the tray upward. Food flew in pitiful slow motion, scattering rice, sauce, and bread before landing squarely across Ángel's immaculate face and clothes. Time seemed to stop.
When Erika opened her eyes and saw him covered in food, she knew she was doomed. No apology would come. Fear rooted her where she sat; trembling was all she could do.
Ángel didn't move. Not a twitch. His expression unreadable, though his eyes—dark, cold—burned with a searing intensity. Slowly, a crooked smile curved his lips, stripped of any joy.
"You have… two seconds to disappear," he said, voice laced with poisonous calm, each word dragging slower than the last. "And you'd better hide well before I see you again."
Erika didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She bolted to her feet and ran, footsteps pounding down the stairs like gunfire. Her heart threatened to burst.
On the rooftop, Ángel remained. Leaning against the wall, the fallen tray at his feet, food smeared across his fine clothes. He glanced at the mess, shut his eyes, and exhaled sharply.
"Why does this food smell so foul?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Even the dogs in my house eat better than this."
His veins bulged beneath his skin, fury searching for an outlet. Yet, strangely, he didn't leave. He stood there, staring at the corner where Erika had hidden seconds earlier, his brow furrowed.
It wasn't the food, nor the clumsiness that truly bothered him. It was something about her—her shrinking frame, her trembling silence, her wordless apologies—that unsettled him more than it should. Something he couldn't shake.
And that angered him even more.
Pushing off the wall, Ángel brushed at his stained shirt with a disgusted flick. The stench lingered, coarse and unbearable to someone like him.
"What was her name again?" he murmured, rifling through insignificant scraps of memory. His brow knitted with irritation.
He paused, sighed, shook his head. "Bah… doesn't matter."
Fingers tugged at his collar, as though the very air reeked of that invisible stain.
"I need to wash this stench of misery off me," he spat, the word itself like dirt on his tongue.
And yet, as he gathered his things and headed for the exit, the echo of those frightened eyes—the way she fled like a cornered animal—clung stubbornly to his mind.
He hated her for it. He hated her… because, against all reason, he couldn't forget her so easily.