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She wonders if she steps over the ledge if anyone would cry. Holding a bunch of wildflowers in her hand, she grimly thinks about how she would be bringing her own funeral crown to her casket.
Then his voice called out and she remembered. Why she had flowers in the first place, who gave them to her, and the reason she was holding them.
And then she steps back from the rusty steel railings, takes her foot from the ledge to the more solid concrete stability of the rooftop's floor, and her life, and turned around to smile at the boy with the lopsided grin and the floppy curly hair, and whispers
For taking me here
Rusty railings can't tempt her to take her life, nor can the bluest sky, as long as she had the almost wilting flowers in her hands and that unbearable thought of never seeing that lopsided grin again.
For now, she holds the flowers to her chest, and held out her hand to him. He runs a hand through his curly hair before it joined her hand, faint lines of rust tracing the skin of her palm, like what his fingers were currently doing.
Falling down heights and through the endless expanse of sky was nothing compared to falling into the endless depths of his eyes, the secrets they held and will tell, and falling falling for him.