I didn't think she would care when I quietly left the party.

In the midst of the bustling crowd, where each person had their own reason for being there, some came to escape the suffocation of life, like animals confined for too long finding a bit of fake freedom. Some were used to and addicted to the muddiness of the music, the intoxication of the cigarettes, the haze brought by alcohol. But in this sea of people, where everyone found a reason to blend into the rhythm of life, there are those like me who drift, lost, in a current that doesn't belong to me. I am a wanderer without purpose, like a lonely branch of water hyacinth floating aimlessly on the surface, not knowing where the shore is...

But I was wrong.

On this rooftop, the cold wind ruffles through my hair, carrying the faint smoke from my cigarette, which fades into nothingness. A cheap industrial cigarette burns halfway on my lips, the bitter, acrid taste clings to the tip of my tongue, as terrible as a defective product still sold to those with no other choice. The smoke chokes my throat, offering no comfort, leaving only a numb and barren sensation. The nicotine rushes to my brain, leaving a light dizziness, a cheap high—no different from my life now, still functional, but only to survive.

Back then, cigarettes weren't as trivial as they are now. The cigarette in my hand wasn't just a roll of paper wrapped around some crushed leaves, but a bit of luxury from life, a symbol of style, of the glorious days. When lit, the smoke wasn't just smoke, it was the scent of freedom, of late-night parties, of encounters where everyone knew my name. A deep inhale, the smoke spreads gently, rich yet refined, like a jazz tune played in an upscale bar, like the lingering scent of perfume on the collar of an old lover.

Now, all I have is this sharp, dry smoke, like a distorted symphony of old days. Another puff, just to ward off some fatigue. Then another puff, for no reason at all.

I lean against the railing, gazing at the setting sun. No matter how romantic and poetic the sunset might be, through the lens of someone like me—someone whose body, once strong like a piece of wood, now only an empty shell—its beauty cannot hide the dullness beneath. The sunset not only brightens the red streaks of clouds like a natural party, but it also exposes the stagnation of time, the decay in my soul. Yet, in this quiet moment, I don't feel the weight of the overwhelming fatigue. In this stillness, perhaps there's just a little something, an unclear feeling, as if something is still listening, a faint heartbeat that hasn't quite died.

The noise from the party echoes from behind—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, a song I've never heard before. That sound cannot reach me. It's an empty noise, full of pretension that society worships, as if life is measured by noise and hustle. Those people, with their fake smiles and blurred lives, cannot stir me. They are mere shadows of a world that I am too tired to try to understand. Meaningless. Empty.

Then I hear her voice.

"Running away?"

I don't answer right away.

"Probably."

Her footsteps come closer. Under the dim light, her shadow is cast on the old tiles, stretching out like an unclear streak that doesn't belong to time, as if the whole surrounding space has quieted down to make room for her. Each step is light yet distinct, as though her sound never touches the ground, only rising gently, spreading through the air. Her figure draws a slender curve, delicate like a gentle streak of color, making it impossible for me to look away. It pulls me in like a perfect painting, so beautiful that it tightens my chest. Every feature of her seems to seep into the air, imprinting on my eyes, as if she herself is pulling me into that separate world, a place I never want to leave. She stops beside me, leaning against the railing, her hand unintentionally brushing against mine, leaving behind a lingering feeling like a passing breeze.

"Not your style?" she asks, her eyes scanning the busy crowd, as if searching for something just out of reach.

"Not exactly. What about you?"

She shrugs, tilting her head slightly, as if unwilling to explain further. "Not tonight."

We stand in silence for a moment, the city below still in constant motion, the last rays of the day casting a soft glow on the buildings, making them shimmer gently. Her hair stretches out softly, like delicate threads touching the light, making me feel drawn into every small movement. The way the light paints her face, from her graceful cheekbones, the soft chin, to her lips, which remain closed in a vague smile, makes me feel like I'm staring at a dream I can't wake up from. Her gaze, not too deep but not easily understood, seems to invite me into a strange world, a place I never want to leave.

"Do you come up here often?" I ask.

"First time."

"Just like me."

She turns to look at me, but I keep my eyes focused on the horizon.

"Everything..."

The silence between us is not uncomfortable. I can feel her shift slightly beside me, as if there is something she wants to say but doesn't know where to start.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

She hesitates. "You'll laugh."

"I won't."

She bites her lip, her eyes falling to her hands resting on the railing.

"I've been thinking about the sunset... it makes me feel sad. It's so beautiful, but so fragile. Its brightest moment is also the sign of its end. It burns one last time, so brilliantly that it almost makes you forget that in just a moment, everything will fade into darkness. Do you understand?"

I don't laugh, but the corner of my mouth involuntarily curves up.

"You think too much."

"Not denying it, huh?" she says, a smile briefly playing at the corner of her lips.

At that moment, I turn to really look at her.

Every feature of her face emerges in the fading light—the eyes reflecting the gentle light soon to fade, her lips slightly moving as if to say something but then falling silent. Beautiful, in a way that makes you want to drown in it. Like a fragile dream that you fear will vanish the moment you blink.

"But you're wrong," I say.

"Wrong about what?"

"About the sunset. It doesn't just fade away. It makes way for the darkness, and only in that darkness can the stars truly shine."

She blinks, her expression showing mild surprise, as if she'd never thought about it that way.

"You're not as quiet as I thought," she whispers.

"It's just that you're not used to hearing me speak."

The sun has set, leaving the sky a burning orange tinged with deep purple, like the final echo of a song that's about to fade. She turns to look back at the party, and as she walks away, her hand lightly brushes mine, so gentle that it seems accidental, but its echo lingers longer than that.

I thought she would continue walking, but she hesitates—just for a brief second, fragile enough that I almost didn't notice.

"Are you leaving?"

I nod, but don't move right away. I just stand there, my eyes still following the space she had just occupied, my palm subtly tightening, as if trying to hold on to the faint warmth left from that fleeting touch.

She only brushed my hand for a moment, but that sensation stays longer than it should—it haunts me, not only in my mind, but in my heart, in every corner of me.

It's like the light at the end of the day—soft, fleeting. And you don't realize it's gone until the darkness slowly wraps around you, and you suddenly know it will never return.