Chapter 2

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Linkin Park – "One More Light"

As Ethan leaned forward, feeling the chilling wind catch his emaciated body and pull him into the abyss, he expected only emptiness and oblivion. But instead, something stopped him. It wasn't a physical grip, not a hand grabbing his collar, but a sudden, inexplicable, almost corporeal sensation of someone's presence. It emerged so close that it felt as if an invisible weight was pressing down on him, pinning him to the very edge of the bridge. It was so unexpected, so alien to his apathy, that his body instinctively, against his will, jerked back, interrupting the fall.

In the next moment, through the icy air and the howl of the wind, Ethan caught the faint but sharp scent of cigarettes. It wasn't the usual smell of tobacco, but something rougher, more pungent, mixed with an unusual, bold perfume that starkly contrasted with the general gloom and dampness of the Jersey City night. This aroma, so foreign to his familiar grayness, was like a slap in the face, jolting him out of his torpor. He didn't understand what was happening. His mind, accustomed to a monotonous void, struggled to process this dissonance invading his personal space.

He felt not just a presence, but a pressure—invisible yet powerful, as if gravity itself had changed its course, or unseen tethers had wrapped around him. It was an almost physical sensation, as if someone unseen had chained him to the railing, preventing him from taking the final step. In his extinguished eyes, something akin to pure shock flickered, replaced by irritation. How dare someone intrude upon his final decision? How dare they interrupt his choice?

The howl of the wind seemed to intensify, but now it carried a new note—anticipation, or perhaps, a caustic curiosity. His heart, which until then had been beating listlessly, indifferently, like a cornered bird, suddenly gave a sharp flutter, skipping a beat. It was painful, yet at the same time, it was alive. It was a reaction. Long-forgotten, almost foreign, but a reaction nonetheless.

He felt the muscles in his back tense, and his fingers, still desperately clinging to the icy railing, gripped it even tighter. The world, which a moment ago had been ready to swallow him, now seemed to recoil, refusing to accept him. This sensation of someone else's commanding presence was unbearable, but it forced his body to instinctively, unconsciously, jerk back, away from the edge. A step was taken. He had not fallen.

Ethan opened his eyes. Before him, like a bright flash in the darkness, she appeared—Sky. Her silhouette, slightly blurred in the dim light of the lampposts, was enveloped in an aura of rebellion and energy, a stark contrast to his own grayness. Light ash-blonde hair, slightly longer than a bob and tousled by the wind, framed a pale face with sharp features and a prominent nose. On her right wrist, he could just make out a tattoo—something like a stylized broken piano engulfed in flames. It seemed strangely familiar, echoing a vague, painful melody in the depths of his memory. He couldn't look away from her eyes—bright, defiant, yet within them, it seemed to him, a deep, painful sadness shone through, as if they were reflecting his own, so carefully hidden despair.

Ethan, still stunned by Sky's sudden appearance and the sensation of her unseen pressure, had no time to recover before she, like a shadow, detached herself from the railing and stepped toward him. Her movements were confident, even bold, and not a single muscle on her pale face flinched. But in her eyes, as extinguished as his own, Ethan sensed a chasm of his own—as if she herself, without a second thought, was ready to step into the void after him. This was not a pretense; it was a kindred, frightening, and magnetic despair that he recognized without words. This gaze made his heart, which had just begun to beat more vividly, clench again into a painful knot.

She came so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, mixed with the smell of cigarettes and that same bold perfume. She looked directly into his eyes, and he felt her gaze penetrate through all his protective layers, through the apathy, through the years of pain. It was not just eye contact; it was an invasion that violated his carefully constructed boundaries. He wanted to turn away but couldn't—her gaze held him as if in a vise. There was no judgment in it, no pity, no curiosity. Only something akin to a cold, indifferent statement of fact that, paradoxically, evoked a sharp, unfamiliar emotion in him.

Finally, Sky broke the tense silence. Her voice was low and raspy, as if she had just smoked it to such a hoarseness, yet it was surprisingly clear.

— Planning on jumping? — the words were not a question, but rather a statement, an observation of an obvious fact. Not a shadow of regret, not a hint of condemnation. Just a direct, disarming assertion.

Ethan couldn't force out a single word. His throat, as if squeezed by an invisible hand, refused to obey. He just stared at her, trying to comprehend what was happening.

Not waiting for an answer, Sky tilted her head slightly, and a spark flickered in her eyes that Ethan couldn't define as either amusement or malice—it was more of a subtle, caustic irony. She continued, her words sounding simultaneously cynical and strangely familiar, as if she were reading his mind or speaking to a mirror.

— Then I'll have to as well. And you don't need another sin on your soul, right?

The last phrase, uttered with a light, almost imperceptible smirk, was like a cold shower. A sin? Another one? Ethan, immersed in his own grief, had never thought of suicide in terms of "sin." For him, it was a release, a final surrender. Sky's words, so simple and direct, yet carrying such a powerful subtext, shocked him to the core, provoking a reaction completely different from his usual apathy. It wasn't fear, not despair, but a strange mix of irritation, bewilderment, and… an involuntary interest. His mind, accustomed to the void, tried to latch onto this new, unexpected thought.

She wasn't pleading, wasn't persuading, wasn't threatening. She simply presented him with a fact, offering him a strange, twisted solidarity in his fall. This desperate "bluff" was as impulsive as it was audacious. Beneath its surface-level cynicism, it hid her deep empathy, masked as indifference, and at the same time, a challenge to her own hopelessness. Unknowingly, she had offered him not salvation, but a mirror in which he saw not only himself but also her—just as broken, but still capable of defying fate. Ethan did not take the final step. An ancient bond, founded on pain, had just been born on the edge of the abyss.

Sky's words hung in the air like shards of ice, ringing in the night's silence, but their coldness, paradoxically, pierced Ethan to his core. He was stunned. His apathy, that all-consuming fog, dissipated for a moment, pierced by a mixture of pure shock, burning irritation, utter bewilderment, and a strange, almost frightening kinship with this stranger. It was so unexpected, so inexplicable, that his mind, accustomed to its monotonous state, began to creak, struggling to accommodate the new information. He felt his consciousness, like a rusted mechanism, laboriously turning, trying to understand what had just happened.

In her eyes, which he could not stop studying, Ethan saw not just the emptiness he knew so well from his own reflection. There was something broken there, deeply hidden, but still desperately clinging to life, even if her words suggested otherwise. It was the same despair he carried within himself, the same hidden pain that made her so much like him.

Ethan felt it physically—Sky's unseen but commanding presence, her audacity, her inexplicable, almost magical connection to his own grief-eaten pain. It seemed her aura, saturated with cigarette smoke and bold perfume, enveloped him, refusing to let go. This powerful, sudden impact was like an electric shock coursing through his numb body. It made him instinctively jerk back, away from the edge, though his mind had not yet processed the reason for the movement.

His feet, as if given an invisible command, took a step back on their own, retreating from the gaping void. The internal tremor, which had begun on the bridge, intensified, but now it lacked its former hopelessness. A new, barely perceptible nuance had appeared in it—a subtle, fragile echo of life, a response to this strange, audacious challenge. His heart, which a moment ago had been beating listlessly, began to pound faster, filling his chest with a new, almost frightening energy. This was a reaction to something other than his own grief. The emerging emotion was so vivid, so new, that it seemed almost unbearable. The world that had been ready to swallow him suddenly seemed to recoil, refusing to accept his total defeat.

Ethan, still in a state of profound shock, looked at Sky. He didn't understand who she was or why she had appeared. He didn't know what to do next. But one thing was clear: he had not fallen. And that fact, that small, unexpected victory, belonged to her, to this strange woman with ash-blonde hair and a defiant gaze that held the same pain as his own. Between them, on a thin thread woven from shock, pain, and a strange kinship, the first, deep emotional connection based on mutual vulnerability had just been established.

Ethan stood dazed, his body still trembling, his mind slowly emerging from its viscous apathy. At that moment, Sky, as if reading his thoughts, moved abruptly. Her hand, quick and confident, dove into the pocket of her massive leather jacket, and in the next instant, a cigarette was plucked from the pack. She held it out to Ethan, her gaze direct and devoid of all judgment, but with something like a challenge in it.

— Smoke, — her voice was low and raspy, as if smoked raw, but held no trace of contempt, only a deep, all-encompassing weariness mixed with a kind of hidden audacity. It wasn't a command, but an offer of a simple, earthly action at a moment when everything else seemed too complex. — It helps kill time, until you decide what to do with it next.

To his own surprise, Ethan silently reached out his hand. His fingers, still trembling slightly, touched the rough paper of the cigarette. This was the first physical contact between them, awkward but significant. He felt the subtle warmth of her fingers as she passed him the cigarette, and that warmth, strangely, sent a small wave of panic through him. Accepting her offer was his first concession, the first step away from the paralyzing apathy that had consumed him for years. It was a minor action, but it opened a tiny crack in his defensive wall. He didn't want it, but he couldn't refuse.

Sky, without waiting for him to light it, brought a cigarette to her own lips and took a deep, confident drag. A thin stream of smoke rose in rings into the cold night air, creating a temporary, translucent veil between them. The smoke, mingling with the scent of her bold perfume and the damp chill of the bridge, filled the space for a moment, a temporary shelter from the unbearable reality.

Ethan brought the cigarette to his lips. His fingers, those thin, seemingly broken, yet so musical fingers that Sky might have unconsciously noticed, were now trembling noticeably as he tried to light it. The flame flared up, a tiny spark in the night, illuminating his pale face. The first inhale. The bitter smoke burned his throat, causing a short, dry cough, but this physical discomfort was almost pleasant because it was real. He felt his lungs fill with something other than emptiness. It wasn't comfort, not joy, but it was a sensation pulling him out of non-existence.

Sky watched him, her gaze unwavering. There was no surprise at his clumsiness in her eyes, no pity for his trembling hands. Only that same cynical dispassion, in which, however, Ethan was beginning to discern subtle nuances. There was something in her gaze that said: "I've seen it all. Nothing surprises me." It was disarming.

At that moment, standing next to her at the edge of the world, Ethan realized his apathy was not absolute. In her presence, under her strange, undemanding gaze, he was capable of concessions, of actions. This was not a rescue from a psychology textbook, but a strange, non-verbal complicity. Their first shared act—silently smoking on the bridge—became the unspoken beginning of their journey, the first fragile brick in the foundation of their unusual bond. He didn't know what to do with the time she had given him, but for the first time in a long while, he had the chance to think about it, all while feeling a slight but real fear of this new reality that had descended upon him.

Ethan and Sky stood side by side on the bridge, inhaling the bitter smoke of their cigarettes, which mingled with the freezing air. The drone of cars below and the whistle of the wind were the only sounds filling the silence between them. It was a strange, almost surreal complicity. No questions, no long explanations, no attempts to "save" him by the book. Sky didn't push, didn't try to "fix" him, and this strange, undemanding tenderness emanating from her paradoxically relaxed Ethan, as if loosening the steel bands that had been squeezing his chest.

He felt awkward, but it was a new, unfamiliar awkwardness, far from his usual state. He didn't know how to act, but her presence, her silent understanding, seemed to fill the gaping void he had carried inside himself for so long. Ethan caught himself stealing glances at her. Her profile was sharp, yet it held a kind of fragile strength. He noticed her gaze slide over his hands—those thin, seemingly broken, yet so musical fingers. And in that moment, Ethan felt an inexplicable embarrassment, a slight burning in his cheeks that was a long-forgotten, almost foreign emotion.

Time passed, measured only by the slowly smoldering cigarettes. When Sky's cigarette was finished, she, with her usual abruptness, extinguished it on the bridge railing, and the butt flew down into the black abyss. Ethan followed it with his eyes, feeling the invisible thread between them tighten. Then she turned to him. In her eyes, bright and defiant, something flickered—it was something akin to an unconscious hope, a thin, barely perceptible glimmer breaking through her usual mask of cynicism.

— Well, are you coming? — she asked in her low, raspy voice, nodding her head toward the opposite side of the bridge, the part that led back to the city, to life. There was no pressure in her question, only a dry but intuitive invitation.

Ethan hesitated. His mind, accustomed to hopelessness, tried to cling to the old, familiar paths, but something inside him had already changed. This girl, her strange bluff, her silent complicity—all of it had stirred something within him that he thought had long been dead. To his own surprise, he slowly but firmly nodded. It was not a rational choice, but an instinctive response to that faint glimmer of hope in her eyes.

In his consciousness, after all the gray and dullness that had surrounded him for years, a bright but fleeting image of something colorful flashed for a moment. It wasn't a complete image, just a hint, but it was enough to plant a seed of a new, almost frightening thought within him: what if? Ethan took a step, then another, walking on the bridge that, a minute ago, had led to oblivion, but now, thanks to her, had become a road back, toward an unconscious spark of hope.