She sat on the edge of the rooftop, bare feet dangling above the city, the hum of traffic rising to meet her. The skyline shimmered with dusk, neon signs flickering to life one by one. In her hand, a crumpled letter—unsigned, but unmistakably hers.
It read like a confession.
“I’ve existed, but I haven’t lived. I’ve smiled at people I don’t like, loved people who didn’t love me back, and said I was ‘fine’ when I wanted to scream.”
She took a deep breath, letting the warm air fill her lungs. Below her, life pulsed—imperfect, loud, beautiful. Horns blared. A couple argued at the corner. Someone laughed so hard it echoed between the buildings.
It was messy.
It was real.
It was alive.
Three weeks ago, she’d quit her job. Walked out mid-shift, left her ID badge on the desk, and never looked back. She had no backup plan, only a backpack and a list of places she wanted to see before thirty.
“I don’t want to watch other people’s stories from the sidelines anymore,” the letter went on. “I want bruises on my knees, sand in my hair, and people who make my heart beat faster.”
So far, she’d hitchhiked once, kissed a stranger on a dare, danced barefoot in a thunderstorm, and cried over a sunrise in Lisbon. And for the first time in years, she wasn’t scared of what came next.
Not because she had it figured out, but because she didn’t need to.
Living wasn’t a destination. It was saying yes. It was heartbreak and laughter and getting lost. It was the quiet bravery of trying again, even after everything.
The wind picked up, brushing against her skin like a whisper. She folded the letter and tucked it into her journal. The sun dipped lower, painting the buildings in shades of gold.
Behind her, someone opened the rooftop door.
“You left this downstairs,” said a voice.
She turned. The girl from the hostel. The one with the messy bun and ink-stained fingers. Her name was Maya. She’d shared her last cigarette and half a poem the night before.
She held out a scarf.
“Figured you might get cold.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking it. “Want to sit?”
Maya nodded and dropped beside her, their knees touching lightly.
They didn’t say much. Just sat there, watching the city breathe.
After a while, Maya asked, “Do you think we ever really know what we’re doing?”
She smiled. “I hope not.”
And that was enough.
The world kept turning, the sky kept fading, and they sat there—two people who didn’t have answers, but had chosen to live anyway.
