You find yourself all alone on the rooftop, shirt unbuttoned, as you breathe from your frustrating dead-end job. You take in the polluted breeze of the city while you stare down the grey sky. You see traffic down the road. Sounds of vehicles, unpleasant, ringing through your ears. Your hairline is receding, and the ones that are left are grey.

You light a cigarette between your dry lips, haunted by your past mistakes as you feel your life slipping away from the confines of your fingers. Maybe it’s already gone, you can’t tell. You take in a puff, convincing yourself it’s the last one. Sigh. How many times has it been? A few puffs more and you release your pursed lips to let the smoke out.

You used to hate the smell of cigarettes fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago - when you were a man of hope and energy - ignited by excitement and reason to change the world - to bring it the justice that it deserved. Not anymore though, not after all these years. You’re merely living in an invisible life support, a shell of what you were, waiting to die already.

You look down from the rooftop, this time you actually consider death. Maybe a fall off this height would end you pretty quickly. It was always just a possibility, a quick one to run away from all of it.

A painless flight to cease your existence.

As you turn your head left to distract yourself, you see a man in his forties. You weren’t expecting anyone around at this hour. Although it wasn’t a surprise. People often came to the rooftop for the same reasons as you - to escape momentarily, and to sometimes enjoy the view of the skyline.

You look at the man. He has a stubble, white shirt, and a tie that is probably too loose for his neck. His dark circles were more prominent than his bad posture, something that you were a victim of, too. He catches you glancing. With reluctance, he nudges a bit closer, making you reflexively lean back before you quickly stand straight again, your arms pressed against the railing and a second batch of smoke dispensing out of your mouth.

“Lighter?” He asks, his voice breaking apart it almost sounded like a mumble.

You take a second to respond as you spot a cigarette on his hands. “Y-yes.”

You give him your neon green lighter as you look into his eyes. Void. A slight nod and a brief sense of comradeship.

Against the gush of wind, you hear faint sounds of traffic. A train running far away. The breeze continues to flow in batches. “Long day?” He asks, finally breaking the entailed silence between you.

You nod.

“Me too,” he says, smoke coming out in sync with his lips. “Just one of those days.”

“It’s everyday,” you mutter, regretting the words as they left your mouth. But you’ve crossed the line.

“...never ends. The suffering,” he murmurs, as if he completes your scentence, staring ahead. A while later, he turns towards you, “Say, man, have you been to the moon?”

You glance at him, startled by the absurd change of topic. “Can’t say I have. You?” He shook his head, “Nope. Do you know how it was created?

“The moon?” You echoed.

"Yeah," he replied, leaning on the railing nonchalantly. "Formed from a collision, they say. An asteroid crashing into Earth." He eyed down the building, staring at the road below. “What do you think happened to earth then?”

“Broke into pieces?”

“Exactly,” he nodded, “Gravity did its thing. The bigger piece became earth, and the smaller ones formed the moon.” He turns to you, “Jupiter has sixty-three,” he says, ignoring your click of tongue. “Sixty-three collisions.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” You snort. Your cigarette is almost at its end, and you want to turn away. “Not all moons are formed by collisions, and Jupiter is just gas.”

“Just gas,” he scoffs. “That’s funny.”

Your forehead boiled with frustration. You had no time for this, and, without realising, your tone gets higher, “Say, man, if you’re trying to cheer me up saying my problems are like an asteroid hitting earth, and that I should just get back up and fight hard, don’t. Please. I’m sick of it. Sick of superficial motivation.”

“I wasn’t trying anything,” he says. “It’s all pointless, anyway. Everything.

“Have a nice day!” You say and don’t wait for his reply. You spit your cigarette on the ground and step on it, stomping back to your cubicle.

As you take more steps away from him, you realise.

You turn back.

The man is on the railing, his foot firm inches away from the edge, contemplating something. Not the best place to be if he wants to stay alive. You fear the worst.

“H-hey-” you stammer, regretting your tone a few seconds ago. “Let’s talk it out….!! About the moon.. you know-” Your feet are frozen and shivering. So were your hands. You can’t move your body an inch. It felt like your legs were confined in solid cement and all you could do was be a rock.

The man doesn’t respond, he continues to stare down and then he-

He takes the leap of faith.

You run to the edge in panic. Hoping it’s all a dream. It’s not. You look down, just moments after where you imagined yourself to be, a man is lying dead on the road, in a pool of his own blood, and a neon green lighter that stands out from it all.