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Location: Turning Winds Home for Youth - Joliet, IllinoisHuman #5.087: Not Meant to Stay
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Interaction(s): Anabel (@Skai)Previously: In the Dark, I Name You
The night wove itself into the fabric of the world, not with an icy grip but with a humming insistence, burrowing beneath the skin, threading cold into the sinew and settling deep in the marrow. The rooftop of the group home was a reliquary of forgotten thingsâof rusted vents devoured by oxidation, of emaciated satellite dishes that had long since given up on receiving messages from a world that never sent them. Time had worn this place down like a prayer whispered too many times to ears that never listened, its relics left to decay in silence, waiting for a reverence that would never return. The railing, once resolute, now slumped in its slow collapse, its corroded skin peeling away like old scripture on a forsaken altar. A single, dying bulb by the entrance flickered with frantic determination, its feeble light spilling jaundiced halos over the gravel-strewn floor, summoning shadows that jittered like restless spirits chained to the bones of the past. Beyond the jagged skyline of rooftops, the city sprawled in cold detachment, an expanse of artificial constellations stretching toward the horizonâan illusion of the infinity of possibilities that had long since lost meaning.
Alexander perched on the ledge, one leg idly swinging over the void, the other bent beneath him, his fingers toying with a cigarette he had no intention of smoking. He liked the way it fit between his fingers, the familiar press of something tangible, something solid, something to fidget with while his mind wandered down corridors it probably shouldnât. He rolled it absently, thumb and forefinger coaxing the ember at its tip to flare, a smouldering firefly flickering in defiance before the wind stole its light, leaving only the taste of burned paper in the air. The sky stretched overhead, vast and starless, a yawning chasm where the cosmos should have been. But the city had swallowed them, devoured the heavens in the slow, creeping glow of light pollution until nothing remained but absence. Or maybe that was the truth of it. Maybe there had never been stars at all. Maybe the universe was just a great, empty mouth, swallowing childrenâs prayers before they could rise.
He liked it up here.
The silence was a rare thing, a gift hoarded by the heights. Down below, the walls pressed in like a ribcage too tight for the lungs inside it, suffocating, brimming with voices that tangled together in an unbroken symphony of grievances, whispered betrayals, and dreams too starved to survive. Even when he didnât seek them, thoughts crawled toward him like ivy through fractured stone, creeping, winding, seeping into the hollow spaces of his mind. He knew which burdens werenât his, but knowledge did little to keep them out. Some thoughts had roots too deep, finding the cracks and making a home inside him, whether he wanted them or not.
The wind prowled across the rooftop, a restless thing with cold, clawed fingers, yanking at the edges of his hoodie like it meant to shake him loose from his perch. The fabric, thinned from wear, billowed uselessly against the chill, offering no real defence. Not that he needed it. The cold was a distant thing, an old ghost rattling at his bones but never quite sinking in. Beneath the hoodie, his t-shirt sagged at the collar, its edges worried raw by restless hands that sought solace in frayed seams when his mind refused to silence itself. His jeans bore the evidence of aimless wanderingâscuffed knees, threadbare patches, a constellation of stains that told stories no one had bothered to ask about. His sneakers, worn down to near surrender, braced carelessly against the ledge, as if daring gravity to prove its inevitability.
His hair was an untamed sprawl of dark curls, not carefully dishevelled for effect but genuinely careless, a product of inattention rather than intent. It fell just long enough to cast a shadow across his face when he wanted to be unreadable, a curtain drawn between himself and the world. But his eyesâthose were sharper than they had any right to be at this hour, restless in their quiet scrutiny. Always searching. Always sifting through the spaces between moments, cataloging the unsaid. Here, in the hush of the rooftop, he could almost pretend he wasnât listening. That he wasnât attuned to the murmurs threading through the walls below. That he didnât already know who lay awake, staring at ceilings too familiar to inspire dreams, who was muffling their grief into a pillow, who was caught in a fevered dream of a life theyâd never touch.
He exhaled, watching for the second time as the ember at his fingertips faded into the dark.
The rooftop was an escape. But even up here, he was never truly alone.
A creak.
Soft, almost shy, but distinct enough.
Alex didnât stir, not immediately. He kept his posture loose, the picture of nonchalance. His fingers absentmindedly caressed the cigarette, a mere prop in his reverie, while his mind soared beyond the rooftop, seeking the presence that had punctured his solitude. Just there. Rooted. Watching.
A sigh escaped his lips, a wisp of resignation, and only then did he turn his head, slow, like a boy unbothered by ghosts. The figure beneath that wavering light, half-obscured, more silhouette than substance, was haloed in sickly gold.
But he knew her.
Anabel.
As if waiting for that subtle acknowledgement, the silhouette stepped forwards and into the darkness of night. The last traces of the light that illuminated her curved frame withered into traces of an outline as the door snicked shut behind her. The bulb above hardly compared to the starlight that glossed the hair as black and as slick as spilled ink that fell down to her waist. Her arms slowly rose to tuck themselves beneath a generous chest. The embrace to keep out the chill of night as well as to protect the heart that beat behind it.
âI wasnât sure if you were out here or not.â Anabelâs low voice travelled across the space between them. Her tone was neither warm nor cold, but indifferent to their meeting. She began to drift forward, and as she neared the edge of the roof where Alex sat, she turned her eyes towards the city beyond.âAre you going to finish that?â
Alex rolled the cigarette between his fingers, not looking at her right away. Instead, he tilted his head, gaze still cast toward the city below.
âDidnât take you for the type to want one,â he murmured, his voice light, almost amused. A beat passed, the wind carrying the words away before he let the cigarette dangle between his fingers, an idle offering. âThen again, you never did let people decide who you were gonna be.â
It was an absent remark, too casual to be anything but a throwaway observation. But, for Alexander, it was a memory unearthed from years ago, when cruel taunts had tried to shape Anabel into something smaller than the girl in front of him now. He covered the moment by rolling his shoulders, finally turning to glance at her. âGo ahead. I donât smoke, anyway.â He twirled it once between his fingers, then tossed it toward her with an easy motion. The ember trailed briefly in the dark before she caught it.
Anabel positioned the half-burnt cigarette between two fingers. A thoughtful look flickered across her features but vanished as quickly as it came before she raised it to her lips. She inhaled, and as the tip burned brightly her eyes slid over to observe the quiet boy beside her with a wary gaze. Her eyes turned back to the city by the time she pulled her hand away. She exhaled, smoke trailing from between her lips, and spoke again.
âPicked it up recently.â
Alex tipped his chin, his gaze idling on the waning ember perched against her fingertips. A third dying firefly, trembling on the precipice of its last breath. Much like the first, it flickered onceâtwiceâthen surrendered to the abyss, swallowed whole by the waiting dark.
âGuess we all got our vices.â
The wind continued to prowl below them, a restless thing, threading through rusted fire escapes and discarded litter, dragging with it the acrid ghost of burnt tobacco and the sodden scent of rain-soaked asphalt. A lull stretched between them, and then softlyâmore idle musing than true inquiryâhe murmured,
âCould be worse.â The corners of his mouth twitched, his eyes fixed on the sprawl of the city where lights bled into puddles and distant sirens keened like wounded things. A requiem for those who had tried and failed. âCould be like that poor bastard who thought he had a shot last month.â A low chuckle, barely there. âDidnât get far.â
At last, he turned his head, studying her sidelong. âEver think about it?â
Anabel pressed her lips together in a frown as she leaned forwards. Her elbows rested on the space beside Alex, hands dangling over the edge of what stood between them and the outside world. What remained of the cigarette slipped from her fingers and drifted away with the wind as she took a moment. Her brows furrowed before she turned her head to truly face him.
âFar as I know, only one of us has ever gotten out,â she murmured. âShe was smart enough not to look back.â
âYeah.â Alexâs voice was softer now, not quite agreement or dissent. Just something in between. He tipped his head back, exhaling slowly. âGuess that makes her the lucky one.â
Lucky. It was a word that didn't sit right in his mouth. Was it luck that had gotten her out? Or knowing when to run? Or why?
Why did she get the chance when so many others didnât?
âIf I had a shot,â Alex mused, âmaybe I'd go somewhere different. Somewhere that makes running mean something.â He shrugged his shoulders.. "Dunno where, exactly. Just... not here.â His thumb skimmed over the edge of his sleeve, tugging at a loose thread.
âMaybe someplace that actually teaches you how to fight back. Y'know, instead of just teaching you to take the hit and keep your head down.â He said the words as if he was testing the idea aloud for the first time, though he had considered it much more than heâd like to admit.
Anabelâs brows twitched as she looked down at her hands. Alex didnât need to see her face to know where her mind had drifted. He could feel itâthe tremor of memory like a ripple spreading across still water. It wasnât mind-reading, not in the strictest sense. More like standing at the precipice of anotherâs recollection, the door cracked just wide enough to catch the imprint of something half-buried but never quite forgotten. It lingered in her curled fingers and the breath she forgot to take.
Flashes. A girl, small and wary, bracing against the inevitability of impact. A younger Anabel beside her, a steady presence in a world that had only ever taught them to endure. Then another shiftâthe same scene, but different. Anabel in the girlâs place now, her frame rigid, her stance unwavering. Fists connecting, the sharp sting of knuckles meeting flesh, and yetâshe did not flinch. Not once. As if standing tall in the face of cruelty could turn bone into steel.
It wasnât a memory he had pried from her mind. Just something she carried so openly that it brushed against his awareness like the afterglow of a dying flameâbrief, bright, but impossible to ignore.
âSometimes you just have to do it yourself.â
âYeah.â Alexâs fingers stilled against his sleeve before finding the loose thread again, worrying at it. âMaybe thatâs what gets people out. Not luck. Just⌠deciding, one day, youâre done waiting for someone else to do it for you.â He exhaled, the breath slipping from his lungs in a way that felt much older than him, weary and worn thin. âBut I dunno. Feels like Iâve been waiting a long time for a day that never comes.â And then, after another moment, his voice dimming to something almost lost between them:
âMaybe I really was just waiting on myself.â
This time, he looked at her, studying her for a beat longer than before. Not with his ability but just as himself.
As AlexanderâŚsomething.
âYou ever pick up on something you werenât supposed to? Not âcause someone told you. Just... because it was there. In the way they looked at you. In what they didnât say.â
He didnât need an actual answer to know that she had. Still, he continued,
âMost people donât realize how much they give away or how much they leave behindâŚwhether they mean to or not.â
And sometimes, he wasnât sure what was worseâstumbling onto truths he was never meant to know or realizing, too late, that he had left pieces of himself scattered in places he could never return to. Maybe more than he could ever reclaim. Like his full name.
Anabelâs head turned just so to glance his way as he spoke. Her dark green eyes met his, black pupils flaring when they realized that he was truly looking at her. Her body turned, then, until she was leaning her side against the ledge. By the time he finished speaking her features had softened, reservations forgotten because of the words he had uttered. His words resonated with something sheâd buried within her heart, expressing it in the longing and loneliness in her eyes and in the way her chin dipped to acknowledge it.
She proved his point without uttering a single word.
For a moment, Alex said nothing as well. Just watchedâthe way her guard wavered, how she let it slip for the span of a single breath, a fleeting fracture in the walls she carried so well. And then, like a candle snuffed before it could catch, it was gone. She turned away, shoulders drawing taut, bracing against the world as if the mere act of looking forward could outrun what lingered behind. A soldierâs retreat, seamless and practiced.
Alex didnât call her on it.
Instead, he let out a slow breath and dragged a hand through his already unruly hair, his gaze meandering back to the sprawl of the city.
âYou said sometimes you have to do it yourself. But that doesnât mean you gotta do it alone.â A smirk ghosted at the corner of his mouth, brief and lopsided. âWhatever it is youâre planning, whatever comes next⌠if you need backup, Iâm in. Just⌠donât expect me to play the hero. Iâm more like a⌠Legion.â
Anabel snorted softly in response. Her usual snideness was replaced by something different now. As if she was acknowledging their brief moment of understanding but choosing to remain apart. A singularity among his multitudes.
âI donât believe in heroes.â She began, her tone bordering nihilistic. âBut Iâll consider your legion.â
Her next breath came quickly.
âSay you find this place that teaches you to fight back. What are you going to do then? Do you think it will make any difference?â The inquiry walked a fine line between curiosity and examination.
âI donât know,â he admitted, the words slipping out quieter than he intended, rough-edged and unsanded. âMaybe nothing changes. Maybe I learn to fight, and it still doesnât mean shit in the end. Maybe the worldâs too big, too fucked to fix, and weâre just cogs in the machine, thinking we can jam it up when all weâre really doing is making noise before we get crushed.â
He inhaled deeply, watching his breath materialize in the frigid air. His ability had taken more from him than he could ever quantifyâmemories, names, fragments of himself. And the worst part? He hadnât even noticed half of them slipping away.
Some wounds bled openly; his were thieves, stealing without a trace left behind.
But it had given him something, too. A way to pull others back before they fell too far. He didnât know if it was enough. But it was something. And perhaps, in a world as broken as this one, something had to count for more than nothing.
âBut maybe,â he ventured cautiously, like testing thin ice, âmaybe thatâs not the point. Maybe itâs not about fixing everything. Maybe itâs about proving we still get to choose. That we donât have to be what the world decided for us.â
His eyes shifted to hers. He weighed the gravity of his next words but hoped for some semblance of understanding from the person who was probably the closest thing he had to a friend in this place.
âWhat I can doâŚmy abilityâŚitâs not the kind of thing people trust,â he admitted, the words close to something that wasnât quite bitter but lived near it. âIt messes with things it shouldnât. People donât like the idea of someone knowing them better than they do. Hell, sometimes I donât like it. Because if I push too far, I could take something I donât really know how to give back.â
A breath. A pause. Another sigh.
âBut if I can use it to help⌠if I can pull someone back before they disappear into their own mind, before they start believing the lie that theyâre alone in whatever hell theyâre drowning inââ
He worked his jaw, considering, feeling the shape of the next words before letting them go into the cold.
âThen maybe thatâs enough. Maybe thatâs what fighting back looks like for me.â
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