“you okay?”
send “you okay?” to find my muse sitting alone on a roof at night.
He sometimes found himself wishing he smoked. Which was a crazy thing to wish, because he knew what it did to someone. Saw black lungs and the coughing and the suffocating. Slow death. But the idea of stepping out into the cool air, having something that immediately calmed you, a cooling rush of chemicals... he could see the appeal. He was sat on the safety bar. It wasn't exactly comfortable; on the side that faced the lip. Such little protection to such a big fall. It always seemed so odd to him, even if it was staff only. Sat with his butt on the cold metal, the higher bar pressing into his back, forcing him to sit hunched. Elbows on knees. Eyes fixed on the city. His mouth opened... and then closed. He didn't know what to say. How he could say it. What even was there? Dana got it. She'd been here long enough to feel it. No. Yes. I don't know. Everything is awful. We're the ones who try to make it better. But we can't fix it. The whole system is broken. We're broken. We're broken. He just sighed and closed his eyes.
