My trembling fingers found my phone. I opened the messaging app, found Hudson's contact, and typed one final message.
[Hudson, if there's a next life, don't come looking for me.]
If you don't look for me, you can't give me hope. And without that cruel, false hope, maybe I won't have to live such a miserable existence again.
I drifted to the balcony. The setting sun painted the sky in blood and fire. I reached out, yearning to touch that dying light—one last bit of warmth before the end.
I leaned forward. Gravity accepted.
The world tilted, spinning. The city's noise faded into rushing wind.
