I stopped. I should’ve called someone, but something pushed me forward instead. Maybe instinct. Maybe stubbornness.
The building was nearly empty, the elevator broken as always, so I climbed five flights of stairs and pushed the rooftop door open. Cold wind rushed out to greet me.
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move at all.
“Hey,” I said gently, just loud enough to cut through the silence.
He let out a breath. “You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Maybe not,” I said, stepping closer but giving him space. “But I’m here anyway.”
A faint laugh escaped him, quick and tired.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Mark.”
“I’m Lena.”
He finally glanced at me — dark hair, exhausted eyes, the expression of someone carrying far too much for too long.
After a moment he said quietly, “It’s been a hard year.”
“Those stack up,” I replied. “Want to tell me about it?”
And he did. Not the detailed version, just pieces — losing his job, a breakup, family tension, bills piling up. The kind of weight that slowly gathers until it feels impossible to carry.
When he finished, he let out a shaky breath. “I’m just tired. Really tired.”
I nodded. “I get that more than you know.”
We stood there for a moment, the skyline stretching around us.
“Here’s the honest part,” I said softly. “You’ve been getting through every single day you didn’t think you would. Even the ones that felt impossible. That counts for something.”
Mark looked down at his hands, then at the city lights reflecting off the rooftop.
“You don’t have to solve your whole life tonight,” I added. “Just take a step back. One small step. Tomorrow can deal with itself.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he stepped back.
He sat down on the concrete, breathing hard like he’d been holding the sky on his shoulders. I joined him, and we let the cold air settle us both.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now,” I said, “we head downstairs. I buy you a terrible cup of coffee. You take a breath. And tomorrow, you make one small move forward. Just one.”
He nodded, slowly but surely.
“Why did you come up here, Lena?” he asked.
I considered giving some clever answer, but instead I told the truth.
“Because I know what it’s like to feel invisible.”
For the first time, he looked at me with something like understanding.
We stayed on that roof until our fingers went numb. No dramatic speeches, no instant fixes — just two people choosing, in the smallest way, not to give up on themselves.
When we finally walked back downstairs, the city wasn’t any brighter. But it felt manageable.
Sometimes, that’s enough.
