The office was unusually quiet tonight. Usually, I would have welcomed the silence, but tonight, it felt heavy, suffocating—like the walls themselves were pressing down on me. My back ached from hours hunched over the computer. My eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets and emails, and my head throbbed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone couldn't cure.
But the physical pain wasn't what hurt the most. It was everything else—the constant betrayals, the relentless pressure, the lonely weight of being invisible while the world marched on around me.
I had worked hard. Too hard, maybe. Every idea I brought forward had been claimed by someone else. Every report I filed had been ignored, while credit went to coworkers who smiled at me and whispered behind my back. And my boss… the last insult… thinking he could "joke" his way past his harassment. HR had laughed when I tried to report it. And now, after everything, I was fired.
I sank into my chair, burying my face in my hands. Tears pricked at my eyes, threatening to fall, but I gritted my teeth and held them back. For years, I had held everything in—pain, anger, grief, frustration. Tonight, there was nothing left. Tonight, I didn't want to pretend. I didn't want to be strong. I just wanted… release.
Even my family had never been there. My stepmother found endless ways to remind me of my worthlessness. My stepbrother squandered money I had worked so hard to earn. My father… gone too soon, leaving me to navigate a world that seemed determined to crush me. My apartment was cold and empty, a mirror of my life.
I thought about the rooftop. The elevator. The quiet stairwells I had wandered past countless times in my mind. Tonight, I wanted escape. I wanted freedom.
The elevator ride felt endless. My legs shook, trembling not only from fatigue but from the weight of everything I had endured. When the doors opened onto the rooftop, the wind whipped through my hair, biting at my cheeks. The city stretched endlessly below, a sea of lights flickering like distant, indifferent stars.
One step forward. Two. My chest tightened. My toes hovered over the edge. I felt an unfamiliar calm, a quiet pull toward the freedom I had been imagining for months. I closed my eyes, bracing to let go.
And then—strong fingers clamped around my wrist, yanking me back with impossible strength. I stumbled backward, crashing against a solid chest. My breath caught, my heart racing.
I looked up. Eyes I had never seen before—sharp, unreadable, calm.
"You can't do this," he said, voice low, steady, commanding.
I wanted to scream, to push him away, to run. But my knees gave out. I collapsed against him, burying my face in his chest, shaking uncontrollably. Tears streamed freely, spilling the weight of months, years, of pain I had kept hidden.
He didn't speak. He didn't scold me. He just held me—steady, firm, protective. Not pitying. Not judging. Just present.
When the crying slowed, when my body trembled with exhaustion, I finally lifted my head slightly. He was still there, still holding me. And for the first time, I allowed myself to feel the warmth of human touch—not pity, not judgment, just warmth. It was small, fragile, but it made a difference.
"Why… why are you here?" I whispered, voice trembling.
He paused, just long enough to let the question hang in the night. Then, quietly, almost casually:
"Because fate brought me here."
Fate. The word dug into me. Strange, foreign, yet… hopeful.
I found the strength to straighten, wobbling slightly but determined. He didn't let go of my hand.
"Let's get somewhere safe," he said. "You need to calm down properly."
Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted to hide. But another part—fragile and tentative—wanted to trust him. Slowly, I nodded, letting him guide me away from the edge, away from the darkness I had almost surrendered to.
As we walked, the wind whipping around us, my chest tightened with a mix of fear and… something else I didn't dare name. His presence—solid, unwavering—was a lifeline I hadn't realized I needed.
Finally, we reached the street. The city sprawled before us, indifferent yet comforting. He loosened his grip slightly but remained close. His gaze stayed on me, steady, unyielding.
"Who… are you?" I asked, voice shaking.
A small, almost imperceptible smile.
"Someone who wants to make sure you're safe. That's all you need to know for now."
I wanted answers. I wanted to know why him, why tonight. But my voice faltered. I nodded silently.
As we walked, a thought crept in—unexpected and terrifying. I wanted to stay here. With him.
Even if I didn't know who he was.
Even if I didn't know his intentions.
Even if I didn't know what tomorrow held.
I just wanted him here.
And somewhere deep inside, a trembling thought took root:
Who… is he, really?