Taemin wants to get onto the very edge of the rooftop.

He’s not very far from doing it because he’s already on the rooftop. The only obstacle is the height of the wide stone railing around the border of the rooftop. It is too tall; reaches up to Taemin’s neck. How can he expect to kill himself if he even can’t get over the railing?

Typical, Taemin laughs, trying to humour himself. Something hot starts to sting his eyes, but he is too familiar with the feeling. You’re still worthless even in your last moments, hey?

He roughly wipes off the water from his eyes with his sleeve and looks around the rooftop for any possible box or anything so he can get on that railing. Today, there are occasional gusts of wind and clouds flooding the sky. It looks pretty dreary (there’s nothing that’s not dreary). Taemin actually likes the wind and clouds and the sky (until he is reminded that he can’t fly). Everything else, he hates. That’s why he’s leaving; because he doesn’t have the audacity to stand it.

He’s nearly done looking through half the rooftop before a strong wind encases him and Taemin looks up to see the door to the rooftop is wide open, and somebody is standing there.

Taemin’s hair returns to a neat mess as he eyes the man at the door. Unlike Taemin, the man is not a visitor. He is wearing black uniform, shirt tucked underneath his pants. His belt is clipped to a gun in a holster. He is a security guard.

“I thought the door to the rooftop was locked,” The security guard yells over the wind. Taemin notices something else; he is tall and young and has big, piercing eyes. There is a nametag on his chest; his name is Choi Minho.

Taemin doesn’t reply.

“Why are you here?” The man asks when he realizes that Taemin isn’t talking. “You’d better not be attempting suicide, hmm?”

Bullseye, Taemin thinks, but instead he says, “No. I just needed a breath of fresh air.” He adds in a smile, void of happiness.

There is a second of silence as the wind picks up again and threatens to pull Taemin’s shirt up. The man is scrutinizing him and Taemin presses his sleeves down in a rush. He has scars; cuts on his arms and wrist. He can’t let the man see them. Or he can forget about suicide.

“You shouldn’t be here,” The man simply says. The expression on his face is unreadable. “It’s off-limits.”

“Please,” Taemin says, “just for three minutes,” He holds up three fingers and tries to think of a good lie, “And I’ll be done. I love this place because it always makes me feel relaxed because it’s so high up and airy and fresh. Will you give me at least this little time?”

The man thinks for a moment before his facial expression softens a tiny bit. “Three minutes. And I’ll be coming back.”

And you won’t see me here, Taemin thinks. You won’t be able to save me.

The man shuts the door with a soft bang and Taemin is alone again.

Five seconds later, Taemin finds a box that can support his weight and let him get over the railing. He carries it over, stands on it and takes in reassuring breathes before climbing onto the stone.

Carefully, he balances with two arms outstretched and slowly stands up. He looks down. He sees what’s in the movies; traffic-filled roads, tens of people (he hopes he doesn’t squish anyone when he falls) and an empty space where he will drop onto. It’s scary, but that’s because he’s pretty high on top of some building he doesn’t remember the name of. He smiles to himself anyways because he’s prepared for this moment for a while now.

He knows that when he falls, he will splat down on the footpath. It’ll hurt, all his bones will crack and he will instantly die in his own puddle of blood, but he doesn’t care about the pain. He’s had too much already.

Taemin will finally get attention. This is one of the flashiest and most simple ways he knows to suicide. He will be dead, but there’s no point trying when he’s alive because he won’t ever get it anyways.

He knows he is nothing; Lee Taemin is a worthless, inadequate, scrawny kid. He has barely done anything in his life so it wouldn’t make a difference if he’s gone. All he gets is hurt. He doesn’t even get attention. He wants to laugh at this hypocritical world, but instead he laughs at himself for being such a pathetic wallflower. He wants to do better than that. Honestly, he does. But he never seems to achieve anything.

His eyes are now hot, wet and sticky.

Taemin stretches his arms. Today, the wind is strong and clouds are getting overcast. He is up in the air and all he wants to do is to fly (he will). He closes his eyes and breathes in the airy scent of the sky, twenty-five floors above. He thinks of the security guard, of his reaction when he will come up to find that Taemin is disappeared and dead. Thanks for giving me three minutes, he thinks half-sardonic, half-grateful as a stream of water races down his cheek.

He steps closer to the edge, and feels the wind gently pull his hair and his clothes back. From today on, Taemin won’t need to hide his scars or his cuts. He lets the wind carry his sleeves back; it doesn’t matter now.

He tightly shuts his eyes and chokes back a hiccupping sob.

This is it. Finally.

He lifts off a foot and – pulled – Taemin is descending down. He falls faster than he expects as he meets with the cold hard stone, and it doesn’t hurt, not at all. He feels himself on something soft and warm, hot hands clutching onto the chest of his shirt.

His eyes are still shut and he’s afraid that he’ll see the sight of the rooftop again when he opens his eyes.

The pair of arms around Taemin hugs him even tighter until he’s gasping for air. Is this what happens when he’s dead?

“Don’t waste your life like this,” a voice breathes into the nape of his neck. Hesitantly, Taemin opens his eyes, and he recognizes the cloudy sky above, and the stone railings around.

“H-Have I died yet?” Taemin whispers, disbelieving. Isn’t he supposed to be down on the sidewalk, dead?

“Please, please, please,” The voice from behind begs as the owner of it slides his hands down to Taemin’s arms and wrists and gently runs his fingers over the scathing imperfections of Taemin’s wrists, as if he knew.

And he knows.

He knows.

Taemin’s been so careful.

Why?

Somebody knows.

Security guard, it must be the security guard, oh stupid wind, why did you have to – your scars, he saw them, he saw them, him, with the gun and the piercing eyes –

No.

Taemin squirms under the man’s hold. “No, no, no –, please, please let go, let go of me, please, please –“

He chants the words like a mantra, any panicking thoughts from his head. He needs to get away from this man, now. He needs to, or this man will, this man will ruin everything he’s wanted and – (attention, he resounds sarcastically, doesn’t he want it?) he will –

Taemin sees that his hands are wet and salty, tears staining. He is sobbing uncontrollably, and it all feels strange – it’s like, his anger, his anger, his troubles, his flaws, his solitude, the blade, and his thoughts in the middle of the night when no moonlight travels through the window cracks, and it’s just all –

“Life means so much more,” the man says.

Taemin looks up into the sky, bright and blue.

How taunting.