Chapter 3

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Hoobastank – "The Reason"

The aftertaste of salvation. Sky felt her feet, clad in massive Dr Martens, touch the solid ground on the other side of the bridge. Beside her, at arm's length, still pale and stunned, walked Ethan. The cold wind, which a moment ago had torn at her hair and chilled her to the bone, now seemed merely an unpleasant reminder of what had just happened.

Inside Sky, a strange, unfamiliar whirlwind of emotions raged. It wasn't pure relief, but a caustic mixture: irritation at her own impulsive act—why did she do it?—and an inexplicable, almost frightening curiosity about this guy who had just chosen not to jump. Her internal monologue was louder than any punk concert: Who did you just save, Sky? What's in it for you?

Her internal struggle was obvious. The instinctive, barely perceptible desire to help, which she had meticulously suppressed for years, had collided head-on with her fear of being vulnerable. She was used to hiding her wounds behind a multi-layered armor of cynicism and caustic irony, with sarcasm as her primary defense. But now, that armor seemed to have cracked.

Every few seconds, she shot quick, appraising glances at Ethan, trying to understand why this guy had gotten to her so much. He looked like a ghost, a pale shadow, but something in him resonated with her own, so carefully hidden pain. "Weirdo," the thought flashed through her mind, an attempt to rationalize and dismiss the flood of feelings. But his thin, as if broken, yet surprisingly musical fingers, which she had involuntarily noticed when she handed him the cigarette, wouldn't leave her head.

They were just like her own tattoo on her wrist—a broken piano surrounded by flames, a symbol of her pain and her refusal of expectations. She knew this pain, this suppressed passion, because she had lived through something similar herself. It was like a mirror in which she saw herself, but from the other side.

This wasn't pure altruism. Her "bluff" had been a challenge—to him, and to herself. She had seen her own reflection in Ethan—a desperate, suppressed part of herself. Sky, who always broke the rules to provoke a reaction, to force a change, now faced the consequences of her impulsive act. Her rebelliousness, her directness—it had all led her here, to this bridge, to save a stranger who turned out to be her reflection.

She wanted to shake off this feeling, to wave it away like an annoying fly. But it clung to her, enveloped her, forcing her to realize: this encounter had affected her more deeply than she could have imagined. Her "bluff" wasn't just bravado. It was an act of impulsive but deeply empathetic resistance to hopelessness, which had affected not only Ethan, but her as well. He hadn't taken the final step, but she hadn't remained unchanged either.

Step by step, they crossed the bridge, and each step felt heavy, as if filled with lead. Both wanted to leave this symbol of despair behind as quickly as possible, but neither knew what to say. The bridge, which minutes ago was the stage for an almost-suicide, had now become a place of unbearable, oppressive silence. Sky could feel the awkwardness as if it were tangible, and it irritated her. She wasn't used to situations like this. Her world was loud, aggressive, devoid of halftones, and Ethan's silent passivity was driving her crazy.

When they finally reached a fork in the road, leading to different parts of Jersey City, the tension became almost physical. No one moved. Ethan stood, still stunned, his gaze fixed on some point in the void, looking incredibly fragile. To break the prolonged silence, Sky took a deep breath, tasting the bitter aftertaste of cigarette smoke on her tongue. She hated this awkwardness, this charge hanging in the air.

— Well, it's not every day you save a desperate case, — her voice sounded deliberately casual, with the signature cynical note she used as armor. She shot a quick, appraising glance at Ethan, trying to gauge his reaction. — Don't get used to it.

Ethan flinched, as if her words, so sharp and direct, had finally reached his numb consciousness. He raised his extinguished gaze to her, a flicker of fear in his eyes, and just slowly nodded, like a wooden doll. His inability to react in any way other than this simple, mechanical movement sparked a faint but growing irritation in Sky. She couldn't stand people who gave her no feedback, who were so wrapped up in themselves.

Sky crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide the rising agitation she felt as a faint but unpleasant itch.

— What, cat got your tongue? — she asked sharply, trying to stir him. Her voice sounded harsh, but beneath the harshness lay something else, a subtle anxiety. She didn't understand why it was so important for her to get some kind of reaction from him.

Ethan looked down. His fingers clenched and unclenched nervously.

— I… I don't know what to say, — he mumbled, his voice muffled and almost inaudible against the wind. It was the first thing he had said, beyond a nod, and his words were filled with genuine confusion and awkwardness.

Sky snorted, but there was no contempt in it this time, only a hidden vexation. She took a step to the side, about to leave, but something made her linger. She felt that strange, magnetic connection, as if a thin thread stretched from her to him. Her hand, on its own, reached into her pocket for a new cigarette. She stuck it between her lips, and then, as if trying to sever that invisible bond, she added, her voice becoming a bit sharper.

— And look, don't do anything stupid. I don't have time for repeat rescue sessions.

She took a deep drag, and the smoke enveloped her, a protective cloud for a moment. Ethan just nodded again, his shoulders slumped, looking even more alone under the dim lights of the bridge. A tense pause, filled with hidden emotions, hung between them, seeming to last an eternity. Sky felt a slight pang of disappointment. She had expected a reaction, anything but this.

Then, turning abruptly, she strode away, disappearing into the darkness of the night, leaving behind only a thin trail of cigarette smoke and unspoken words.

Ethan remained standing at the fork, watching her go. He wasn't "saved," not completely, that much was obvious. The pain, the apathy, the grief—it was all still with him. But something had changed. His path, which a minute ago led to nowhere, had now shifted. He didn't know what this strange, inexplicable complicity was, who this audacious stranger was, but her appearance had left a mark on him, an open question about their future, and a strange, magnetic connection that wouldn't let him leave.