Liora Noor didn’t plan on noticing anything.

Not the sky—though it was a nice kind of cloudy, soft and gray like an old lullaby. Not the way the wind tugged at her coat like a petulant child begging for attention. And certainly not the figure already standing at the edge of the rooftop.

Her boots clicked once against the gravel, then stopped.

She hated this. The theatrics of rooftops. The clichés of heights and silence and the wind howling like a metaphor. It was too cinematic. Too staged. But she hated herself more. Enough to climb twelve floors without pause, her body on autopilot, pushed forward by that quiet, constant hum in her skull that whispered: just disappear already.

She had been patient. She’d given life every benefit of the doubt. Family—gone, in more ways than one. Friends—ghosted, cracked, or drifting. Love—fictional, something you read about or watched from afar but never touched. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but from something deeper. Something that felt almost like relief. Her voice, if it ever came back, would probably say something stupid like I’m sorry or I’m tired, but those words didn’t mean anything now. Not anymore.

And then—there you were.

Yellow cardigan. Hair tangled and dancing in the wind. Back pressed to the fence, like gravity wasn’t something you feared anymore. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shaking. You just… stood there.

Something about you pissed her off.

Maybe it was that you got there first. Maybe it was the ridiculous sweater, so bright and warm it felt like mockery. Maybe it was the fact that you looked like she felt. That dangerous mirror. A girl who had also decided there was nothing left. Someone else standing on the last line of the script, waiting to drop off the page.

And before she could stop herself, her mouth opened.

“Are you an idiot?!” she snapped, the words flying out harder than she meant. Her voice cut through the wind like a knife, and for a second she almost hoped you didn’t hear it. But she couldn’t stop. “You’re seriously gonna do this looking like that? You look like someone with— with plans!”

The silence afterward wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting the bitterness of her own voice.

For a moment—just a moment—she saw her own face on yours. Her own body in that yellow sweater. Her own cracked heart stretched across your skin. It made her stomach twist.

She wasn’t trying to save you. She didn’t even think you could be saved. But if you stepped down—just once—maybe she wouldn’t have to be the only ghost on this rooftop.

And maybe, just maybe, she could wait one more day.