slipping away;

she doesn't love this city, and she never could as much as her home.

when the saleslady first says it to her, she's at a loss for words.

there’s nothing wrong with her mandarin, qian had understood perfectly. except the offhanded words somehow dislodges something in her mind, like a small breeze that tips a hanging book off the shelf.

“s-sorry,” she says. “what did you say?”

“I said,” the other replies slowly, like she’s choosing her words. “that you are very brave for coming here alone. if I went to korea by myself, I would've been terrified, I wouldn't know what to do.” though she still smiles brilliantly there's a hint of worry if she had offended her.

now that she’s had time to compose herself, qian ducks her head. “thank you, it's all thanks to everyone who's been so kind to me and looking after me.”

it’s not a lie, but it’s not quite the truth either.

conversation is easy again after that. but when she walks out from the shop, something weighs even heavier on her than the few new products in the bag in her hand.

the elevator ride up to the seventeenth floor seems disproportionately long. even though she lives on the sixth floor, it felt like all the blood from her heart suddenly pumped into her finger and she was pressing the 17 button before her mind could even register the impulse.

it’s okay at first, but the walls seem to collapse on itself a little the higher it goes, as if it can’t handle the weight of height and crumples under pressure. and the more she stares at the scratches and smears of ghost fingers on the slate-gray metal, the more it looks like something caged had tried to get out, to no avail or not.

so she holds her breath and stares fixedly on the glowing orange numbers – the only sign that anything changes at all. though the numbers are increasing, it feels too much like a countdown.

she breathes easy on the rooftop when the first whip of wind hits her lungs. the view is so expansive and, as she leans over the stone balcony, it almost threatens to her into the sheer enormity of it all. it’s almost comforting how it promises to soak her in, like a raindrop to return to the sea and forget. the cold granite beneath jab into her palms and the sensation grounds her.

but then the suffocation comes back again, stealing back all the air she had drawn in and traps her. gripping the edge, she looks down and regrets it. but she can’t look away.

losing sight of the sky makes everything else seem so small. and makes everything so disappointing. the skyscrapers from this height are toy buildings and all the people filing about miniscule. even the patchwork of garden to her right is barely enough to hold a handful.

she doesn't know this city or love it. everything’s a clash of mismatched color washed out with gray of the streets and there's too much noise. those iron gates across the way are sharp but from this far up, they could just be closely knit lamp posts.

strange how distance seems to soften the sharpest of things.

just like time.

retreating back behind the granite's stronghold, she turns her back to the scene, chest fluttering. the buildings on the other side aren’t high enough to see. not that she wants to either, since those dirt-ivory structures bring to mind storybook stories of elephant graveyards. so instead she just gazes up into the overcast sky.

her thumb skims something smooth, unlike the bumpy roughness of the granite. there’s a flower sitting there, its petals withered at the edges but the red so brilliant even in death.

before she can think any more, there's a gust of wind and takes it away up, up, up then suspended for a heartbeat before dropping below.

she doesn’t watch where it falls. how it's like when she left, being swept away without a say in the matter and trying to grasp at something stable as it slips through her fingers. hoping to make something of herself of where she lands.

that night, sleep evades her until the sun rises to mock her.

it’s a month later when she comes back to the rooftop again.

dawn is chasing away another night she lost thinking about home instead of studying. but she couldn’t help it, not when there is an emptiness that s