Perfect Day

If you are reading this, I am dead.

Well, shit. I really don’t know how to start this letter without sounding like a title for another Drake album. Anyways, my name’s Mira Andre, and as of September 30, I’ll be dead. I’m still not sure whether I’m going to jump from the bridge or just overdose. The latter seems way too boring. If you don’t find me with foam coming out of my mouth, lying on the floor, then check the Giuliano bridge. Don’t worry, I won’t do it during the peak hours. I understand there are kids and their parents, but I’m going later in the evening, where my only company are just elderly couples and the occasional dog walker.

To all official authorities, I was not coerced or threatened. This is a completely voluntary decision. A decision made with full clarity and reason.

To my landlord, please send my dog to the animal shelter, or give him to someone who actually wants this dog. People like him. I, on the other hand, fucking hate that dog. But surely somebody will take care of him, which is more than I ever did.

To my family, I know, I know — two deaths in the family in one month, how could this have happened? What have we done to piss off Jesus so much? Our poor little Mira.

Nah, trust me, I’m alright, and more mentally stable than all of you. But if you need another reason to get as drunk as you did at mom’s funeral, you’re welcome. The little snot is gone. Hooray.

And finally, to my boss, if you’re reading this, I want you to know one thing and one thing only:

Fuck you, spineless bitch. Treat this as my resignation letter. Bye-bye.

Did you know you can cut a Snickers bar into 40+ slices? I didn’t. I spent the last 2 minutes watching someone do exactly that. I wasn’t sure if I was fascinated or genuinely disgusted at the fact that I was entertained. In the meantime, the clock was getting closer and closer to 1 PM, which meant I was about to enjoy the first meal of the day. I didn’t get many calls today, thankfully ­­– most of them transferred to Jessica. Even now, I saw her arguing, gesturing, writing arguments down as she talked to another client on the line. I barely heard what the fuss was about, but apparently, the company withdrew money for the subscription twice in a row. This happens. Not hard to win. Just apologise, point to the fine print, done. The other firm where I worked didn’t include it in the terms. Those incels got sued. Deservingly so.

Brrring….brrring.

Come on, not five minutes before the break. I looked at the KILL EM WITH KINDNESS sign hanging on the wall to the left and picked up the call. Breathe in, don’t breathe out.

“Hi. Thank you for calling RTC Mobile. This is Mira talking. How can I help you?”

“How can you help me? I’ll tell you how you can help me.”

Fuck, not that tone. Not before the break at least. I had an urge to hang up myself, but our shift leader tracked each call with the transcription later. They said it was to “assess performance and offer room for improvement, blah blah.” That decreased the weekly amount of “piss off” from 10–14 to 0. The pleasure of saying that was better than orgasm.

“For the third time this week, my son’s internet connection is down. Do you understand how important this is?”

“Of course, I understand. Let me try to help you–”

“NO. You don’t understand, my son is a national champion in Fortnite. He’s one of the only 10-year-olds in the country on track to become a global icon, and now? You’re ruining his training.” I’ve been yelled at a lot, but I still flinched.

“Ma’am, I completely understand that. Let me see what I can do. What’s your address, and what type of subscription do you have with us?”

“Can’t you see it when I call you?”

“I can, but I have to verify the information,” I forced a smile, “part of the protocol.”

“Well, okay,” she sighed, “It’s Remington Street 346, subscription — Golden Hour.”

“Perfect, I see it,” I looked at the clock. One minute before the break.

“Okay, Ma’am, how about I just send our engineer to you, and he can look at the wifi router and explore what could’ve gone wrong. Does that sound good?”

“Make it quick.” She hung up.

I made it to the break.

I went to my favourite WOK spot near the office. I come here twice a day, five days a week. Almost every employee knows me there, though we never talk. The lack of time in the mornings, exhaustion in the evenings, the simplicity of just ordering a meal — it all seemed like the way to go. That was the only thing I spent my money on. Not travelling. Not buying expensive stuff. Just eating out.

I returned to the office thirty minutes later to find a group of my colleagues standing in a circle, listening to James, who had recently been promoted.

“So, James, what are you gonna do with the promotion money?”

He gave them a smug, self-satisfied smirk while chewing on the sandwich his wife had made him.

“Well, Anya and I are probably going to go to Bali,” he yawned, “nothing too crazy, you know.”

The group gasped in unison.

“Anya also gifted me this new Prada suit I’m wearing right now, try the fabric.”

He extended his arm sleeve to everyone in the circle. It felt like I was witnessing a cult.

“And as you heard, there will be…changes…soon to come in our collective. For some, they might be all rainbows and sunshines, and for some…” he gave a look to Jessie, one of our longest employees, “a potential new career trajectory.”

While the crowd continued to gasp and idolise our new leader, I just stood there and watched James boast and demand compliments to his brand-new suit. That his saint-like wife gifted him.

“This is a beautiful suit.”

“It’s incredible, James.”

“The fabric is wonderful; I can clearly see the Italian quality.”

“Maybe when you get yourself a new one, you can sell this one to me? In 5–7 years?”

Great suit on the walking ham.

The crowd’s look instantly shifted to me. Did I say that out loud? James’ eyes widened.

“Mira…just because you have done so much for our company,” he clicked his tongue, taking a step forward, “I’m going to act as if I’ve never heard that.” A muscle flickered in his jaw, yet the voice remained calm, “Despite you being one of the most frumpy and homely ladies in our building­–” I read the disgust he felt as he looked at me a bit longer. The talking around the room intensified as he took another step forward, looking directly at me.

“Mira, you look quite,” he hesitated, “haggard. Take a day off, and go get some sleep, would you?” He turned back and went on with his day, same as everybody else, while I just stood there.

I don’t remember the walk home, the faces in the metro, or the mad concierge. I just remember dropping myself into the bath, replaying what happened this afternoon. James was right. I looked haggard. I was haggard. But I wasn’t hurt by his words ­– I knew I was a mess. I was fine with that. I never wanted to change the world, or anything like that. But I did imagine my life with a bit more colour to it. I thought about my mother. She was a marketing analyst, the same kind of job. Every evening, she was exhausted, falling asleep on the couch still in her work clothes. She never found any time for my father or me. We’d try to talk to her, and she’d nod, just staring at the wall, with one half of her there, and another somewhere else. On the weekends, she’d sleep, wake up late, spend a whole day watching TV, and sleep again. I used to think: I’ll never be like that. But I was. Even worse, to be honest. At least she had my father. A couple of friends who showed up to her funeral, and annual trips to Cancun. Technically, I had friends too. But every time we tried to plan something, something came up. Kids. Work. Husband. School. The routine tasks of people in their thirties.

I wondered: Would anybody care if I actually passed away?

People cared when Mom died. That whole funeral, though, was a joke. People spent more time talking about me not crying or not showing any emotions than actually honouring her death.

Something’s wrong with her. She doesn’t care.

Nothing’s wrong with me. That’s just the way I am. Maybe this life is just what I’m supposed to have. The best I could have. But was this actually life? Did I live my days, or did I just exist?

The image ran through my mind: waking up, going to work, eating takeout, sleeping and then repeating it all over again. Not the routine to film for TikTok. I got out of the bath and headed to the kitchen, looking out over the glowing, beautiful city. On the kitchen table, I noticed the notebook my friends and I filled out with the tasks we wanted to do over the next few years.

• Get into the gym — Mira

• Go to a concert of John Williams — Mira

• Learn Spanish — Alexa

• Go to a new art exhibition — Mira

• Write a book — Wendy

• Go on a cruise — Mira

I’d completely forgotten about this. Reading it now brought a smile to my face. I took a picture of it and sent it to our group chat with Alexa and Wendy.

“Hey girls, take a look at this. I’m not sure whether we can learn Spanish tomorrow, but we can go on the short cruise around the bay.”

In the span of five minutes, two rejections.

“No worries,” I texted back. But I was worried.

The saying I used to tell my parents: “It’s my life, and my life only,” had drastically changed its meaning. In my life, I had no life.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The dog whined from the other room, as I continued to ignore it. What if I could do it all in one day? The gym, the cruise, the art, the concert, everything I ever wanted and just never worry about tomorrow. A rhythmic scratch echoed through my quiet apartment.

“Stop, please, just for one night, leave me alone,” I threw a pillow at the door, and he walked away. I pictured my mother, the hardest-working person I’ve ever known. If she’d known she only had one more day, would she have lived it differently? Yes. She would. She would drop all the work and do the things she always wanted to do, but never found time for. Meet with her friends, go to a beach, maybe even just go to a Spa. The idea had been in my mind for some time already, but I never dared to say it out loud. To live one perfect day, I’d have to die the same day.

Otherwise, I’d wake up the next morning, go right back to that shitty place from which I’m going to get fired, just get back to existing. But if I knew it was my last day? No concerns about money. No concerns about jobs. Just one perfect day. My perfect day. A smile appeared on my face. For the first time in years, I felt something other than numb. I looked forward to dying tomorrow.

September 30th

I looked at the clock. 9 AM. I never allowed myself to sleep this long — otherwise I’d be late. Now, I didn’t have anywhere to rush to. Only to my own funeral. I woke up without any neck pain or any pain whatsoever. I wasn’t religious, but it felt like some forces were nudging me to go to the gym today. I wasn’t going to resist. The dog barked from the living room. This time, I let him into my bathroom. After a quick bath, I wanted to eat something. My instant thought was to order takeout again, but this time I reasoned with myself: go outside, get groceries, make vanilla pancakes with an omelette and some fruits. A perfect breakfast of one-day gym girl.

First time grocery shopping in a year. There was something attractive about choosing my own ingredients instead of just ordering the same templated meals. I pictured the annoyed look from restaurant workers whenever I ordered spicy food and requested no spice. I grabbed an extra pack of kibble off the shelf for my dog. Enough to last him a week, maybe two, until somebody picks him up.

The kitchen felt unfamiliar, it was a room I’d always intentionally avoided. The sun lit it up now, exposing all the places where I hadn’t cleaned dust in a while. I knew damn well I wasn’t cleaning anything today. I cracked the eggs, added a splash of cream, a pinch of salt, garlic pepper and began to whisk. Garlic peppers always created an unbearable smell in my apartment, yet the taste was memorable and so piquant. The butter hissed in the pan as I poured the eggs and began to swirl them around. Pancakes came next, hitting the hot buttery surface with a satisfying spat. Soft thuds followed one after another, and that scent ­­– sweet, warm, flowery — was a smell my morning had missed. I slid the crispy omelette onto the plate, followed by pancakes and delicately cut banana and a handful of blueberries.

Bon Appétit, Mira.

I knew I was a good cook, but I didn’t know I was this good. The omelette surrendered on my tongue, followed by the buttery crispiness of the pancakes. I’d made the crumb tender, exactly how I liked it. As I ate, I looked at the notebook that had been lying there since last night. I tore off an empty page and started writing. If I wanted to prove to myself I was committed to dying, I had to write the letter and send it today.

Who knew starting a death letter could be so hard?

I didn’t want to start from clichés:

Don’t worry about me, I’m in a better place

Nor did I want to come off as too direct:

Hey guys, I’m dead btw.

I took another bite of pancake, dragged it through the melted butter on the plate, and added a couple of blueberries to it. Aside from not knowing how to start a letter, I didn’t know what I wanted to do today. I looked at the list. No John Williams concerts right now. No learning Spanish in one day. But the gym, the cruise, the exhibition, those I could do. Okay, but how was I going to die? I glanced over the untidy apartment I hadn’t cleaned in weeks. I’m certainly not dying here. Bad for the landlord’s reputation, and he’s actually a good guy. Cutting? Too much pain. Overdosing? Too unpredictable. Shooting could work; it’s fast — there are no questions, but I’d leave a mess. What about jumping from a bridge? I’ve read somewhere on Reddit that when you jump from a height, you hit the water so fast that it feels like concrete. Sometimes it kills you directly. Sometimes it just knocks you out, and you drown. I took a bite of the omelette to replace the sweetness with a crunchy and savoury taste. Jumping was the best option. But from where?

I googled the highest bridges in the city. Soon enough, I found it: Giuliano Bridge. How had I never thought of it? It’s authentic, slightly modern, high enough to feel the fall deep in my bones. And the cruise dock was right next to it. Perfect. I paused at the door, making sure I had the letter, that I’d left food for the dog and enjoyed the apartment’s silence, broken by the dog’s muffled whining. I grabbed my keys and left, throwing the letter into the nearest mailbox.

The gym next to my house was huge. It was spacious, had multiple amenities, and they even sold gym clothes at an overpriced rate. I got them anyway. A hundred for the outfit fit, and another forty for a day pass. Expensive to be healthy. An assistant showed me the gym area, and by the thudding bass from speakers getting closer, I knew we were headed in the right direction. Thick air. Loud music. The smell of rubber mats and sweat that just felt unusual. I’ve felt something in between excitement and intimidation. Basically, your first sex. I drifted toward the weight machines and dropped my stuff near something that looked somewhat familiar — a leg press. I’d seen these insane videos of people pressing 300kg, even 400kg. And not the jacked and oily guys you see online. No. Slender women with grit and determination that left me in awe. Well, now, it was my turn. I sat down hesitantly. The seat felt firmer than expected, slightly uncomfortable. I tried to find an adjustment lever. Pulled it. My entire seat slid back with a heavy clunk. I tried again, now I sat way too close. I felt my face getting redder with each failure. On the third try, I finally got it. I placed my feet where they seemed right, though I had no idea if they actually were. I didn’t put any weight, just wanted to feel it out first. That first rep revealed how wrong a body can feel. Nothing was as smooth as I saw it online. My hips twisted, my knees shook, and I thought I was going to break. A burn followed that I’ve never felt before, a shaky, unstable feeling in my joints. I couldn’t believe I was so weak that I couldn’t push 20kg a few times. I stopped. Sat there, breathing hard, completely clueless about what I had just done. Somebody patted my shoulder from behind:

“Hey! First time here?”

“How do you know?”

“Well, you bought your gym clothes from the store here, and you’re wearing a day pass around your neck, and frankly,” she gestures toward the seat, “you’re making this way harder than it needs to be.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just — ”

“Oh, no worries, it’s okay. Let me help you out. My name’s Alisha”

“Mira. Nice to meet you.”

“Okay, Mira, first of all, let’s adjust your seat.”

“I thought it was adjusted.”

Her eyes widened. Her left eyebrow raised as she scanned me from top to bottom.

“You don’t look 150 to me, and your legs aren’t definitely this short.”

“Look, it’s my fucking first time, how am I supposed to know this shit?”

She laughed. “I get it, don’t worry. Let’s get you settled.”

For the next five minutes, she explained to me that the leg press was trickier than it looked. No shit — I’d figured that out already. She was in fantastic shape. I don’t remember seeing a woman with such well-defined abs. Apparently, she’s also a mom, which makes it twice as impressive. She told me her gym journey started five years ago, right after her first kid. Her husband died 3 years ago, and now she was getting ready to marry someone new. It felt strange to know this much about someone’s life in five minutes. I mentioned my mom had died, too, but she just nodded and said her ex-husband was an asshole anyway.

“Alright, good, Mira. Now place your feet lower,” she paused, “Even lower. Good. Now heels near the bottom edge, toes up slightly, knees out to the sides. We don’t want to stress your joints on the first day.”

The way she was teaching me, I wondered if she’d charge me at the end of this session. I could picture her saying it sweetly: That’ll be 100$, kiddo.

“Hey,” she snapped her fingers across my face, “Don’t fall asleep. Plant your butt here the whole time. If your lower back comes up, you’re going to get hurt. Got it?”

I nodded. That set felt different. I didn’t know what I enjoyed more, the encouragement from Alisha, or the fact that I was doing something right. The burn felt nice. It spread through my quads and hamstrings. Maybe it wasn’t true, but it felt like with each rep I was getting stronger. I wanted to believe that.

“That’s it,” she says. “There you go. There you go, girl. How does that feel?”

“Good. Even great. What should I go do next?”

“Well, you’ve got the whole gym for yourself. How about you just go on a treadmill for now so you don’t injure yourself while I’m not here?” She hesitated, seeing my enthusiasm fade. “But next week, when I’m here, we’ll go through all the machines together. I need a pretty gym partner.” Her smile welcomed me into a quick, friendly hug. She was a mother; I did not doubt it now.

“Next week sounds great.”

If only I had met you just a week ago, Alisha. If only.

There were a lot of vacant treadmills. I chose one to face the window. Seconds later, a woman of around my age jumped on the treadmill next to me. She had dark leggings on, a ponytail bouncing with each step, and the towel on her shoulder. I set my speed at 4km. She set hers at 4.5. Just a little faster. Without really deciding to, I upped mine to 4.6 to match her tempo. She increased to 6km, now she was jogging with a ponytail swinging left to right. I could match that, couldn’t I? I went to 8. The woman went to 10. Now she was running. I tried to mimic her, relax the shoulder, steady the breath. 10.5. My god, how did I go from walking to running? My feet started slapping harder as I was running out of breath, and my legs were giving up. A woman glanced at my screen. Or did she? 12 km per hour. Could I even match that? Should I? Something foolish woke up in me. My legs were already screaming from the leg press, but I liked the idea that I could match someone’s pace, even for 30 seconds. I went to 14. I was sprinting now. This felt good. I was winning. She went to 15.5. I hit the stop button. She didn’t even look at me, just kept running with that ponytail swinging. I wanted to grab it and yank her off the treadmill. But she hadn’t done anything. I was the one who made it a race and yet lost. Fine. Let her have a win; she doesn’t even know about it. The gym had a spa. I hadn’t been to one in years, but the idea of a hot tub, maybe even a massage, sounded incredible.

A pleasant ache had replaced the shaky feeling in my legs. The spa did what it was supposed to. As I walked out of the gym, I moved slowly, deliberately. Next on the list: the art exhibition. I had no idea what exhibitions were out there, so I started walking towards the park, as on the other side was a contemporary art museum. Not the kind where they present bizarre shit as revolutionary and expect you to pay $40 for a ticket, but the kind that leaves you thinking. When I got closer to the park, I saw a folding table with canvases propped against it with some caricatures on them. I slowed down and stopped. On the other side of the table sat a young girl. Early twenties, maybe, but could as well just turn 14. Hard to tell. She didn’t mind me ­­– her full attention was on sketching something in her notebook. The paintings were abstract. Not the usual landscapes or mountains, though she had a few of those in smaller frames. Most of her work was dark. Not in the colours but in the meaning. One showed a small boy pressed into a corner, knees drawn to his chest. Above him loomed a figure ­– just a shadow, really, but you could see the belt in its hand. Another was a self-portrait: a girl alone at a table, people rushing past her. Nobody really had a face, even her. Everything was blurred, yet she was the main focus. The third caught my attention the most. A man on a bench, holding an open notebook, with tears running down his face. We never know what’s in the notebook, so you physically can’t tell if he’s crying from joy or despair. I stepped closer. The girl looked up.

“I like your paintings,” I said. “They’re…you like ambiguity, don’t you?”

She glanced at them, then at me, then back to her notebook: “Thank you.”

“No, really. You’re talented. It’s nice to see you putting this out there.”

“Nobody cares. You’re just being nice.”

I moved closer and sat in the empty chair next to the table.

“What are you working on right now?”

“I don’t know yet. Probably something sad again.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She put her notebook down and looked at me, “Miss, I’m sorry, but I don’t need a pep talk right now. I’m here because I need money. That’s the only way I can earn it by selling these.” She gestured vaguely at the paintings.

“Why did you say it like that?”

She didn’t answer. I looked at the price tags, and most were under $30. I wondered how many she has already sold. Looking at her face, not many. I reached into my bag, found my wallet and pulled out almost every bill I had. I left just enough for the cruise.

400$.

I held it out to her.

Her mouth opened as she stared at the money, then at me. Didn’t take it.

“I don’t understand. Even if you bought everything, it’s only $100 max.”

“I’m not buying anything. You said you needed money. Take it.” My voice came out quiet but firm. “I really like what you do. I mean it. It’s better than half the shit in that museum over there.”

The girl’s eyes spoke disbelief. She looked younger now — maybe sixteen, maybe even younger.

“I can’t. That’s too much, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” I pressed the bills into her hand and closed her fingers around them, “Just promise me you’ll keep trying. Put your sadness out there. Own it.”

The girl nodded. Her hand shook. Her face turned red.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “Thank you.”

I smiled.

Screw the exhibition.

The sun was lower now. Golden hour. If I wanted to catch the cruise, I had to move. I caught a cab and climbed in. Through the back window, I saw the girl still sitting there, staring at the money in her hands.

The last cruise was set to depart at 6:30 sharp. I was still in traffic at 6:19. I couldn’t be late. Not on my last day. Everything has been going so smoothly — why did it have to fall apart now?

“Sorry, sir, what time do you think we’ll get there?”

“Ma’am, do I look like I can control this?”

No. Neither could I.

When I arrived, the boat was already pulling away from the pier. By the time I reached the ticket booth, it was 300, maybe 400 meters out.

“Sorry, we’re closed. We depart at six-thirty sharp. Come back tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here tomorrow. Is there another option? It’s my last, and I really–”

“No, sorry.” The ticket window slid shut.

Dipshit.

I stood there, considering my options. Should I hijack the boat? This idea was intriguing, except I had no idea how to control a boat. Or how to hijack one. I sat at the pier, staring at the water and other boats passing by. That was it. I’d die today without my cruise.

“Could you move?”

I looked up. A pale man with thin hair and a face that had seen at least six decades, stood over me. He wore a faded fisherman’s sweater and carried a fishing rod in one hand.

“Sorry.”

He stepped past me and climbed into a small boat, maybe sixteen feet long max. It had a single bench seat with cracked leather, and the motor looked slightly older than I was. This was my last shot.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to go on the cruise,” I gestured toward the distant speck of lights. “It’s my last day in the city, and I’ve never been on the water. Maybe you could give me a ride?”

The old man followed my gaze, trying to figure out what I actually wanted.

“Just come back tomorrow morning. They start at six.”

He pulled a cord on the motor. It sputtered. Died. He tried again. Nothing

“I can pay you. 150$ for forty minutes.

His hand paused mid-pull. He ran it through his hair.

“150$?”

“I don’t have more.”

He hesitated.

“It’s nothing fancy, but it floats.”

“I’m not picky.”

I was. But I didn’t have options.

“Get in.”

The boat roared to life on the next pull, coughing out a cloud of smoke that covered both of us.

He grinned, “Told you it floats.”

I grinned back.

He steered us away from the dock, away from the usual cruise route. I asked if he could drop me near the Giuliano Bridge. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. As we drifted away, the city opened up before me from a different angle. Glass towers catching the last of the sun, their windows burning orange and gold. Below them, clusters of old stone buildings with clay roofs, crowded together like they were holding each other up. The water smelled like salt mixed with diesel fuel, as the small waves slapped against the hull. I’d been so worried I’d get seasick. But I felt fine. The old man’s name was Allen. He ran a small restaurant and took his sourcing very seriously, taking full responsibility for the quality of his products. He’d once hired someone to fish for him, but the guy just bought everything from the market and tried to pass it off as fresh. I acted surprised at the stupidity of the fisherman Allen hired. He agreed. After a while, he cut the motor. We drifted. He pulled out two cans of beer and offered me one. I took it.

“First time on the water?”

“Yes. Been in this city since I was born. Never did any of the touristy stuff.”

“You said it’s your last day here.”

Fuck. Careful, Mira.

“Yeah. I’m moving to the east side tomorrow.”

He sighed, “I hope it’s better for you there. Better than sitting in a rusty boat with an old man.”

He laughed. I laughed too.

He sipped his beer, making a slight slurping sound, “My son moved east three years ago.”

“Why?”

“For school,” He swept his arm toward the city. “Like there’s no good education here.”

“Is he planning to come back?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t heard from him since. I just send money every month so he can survive.”

“You’re a good father.” I put my hand on his shoulder. He brushed it off.

“Bullshit. If I was a good father, he wouldn’t have left his old man here in this hole.”

I didn’t know what to say. In my college years, I’d been the same. And I couldn’t promise him it would change one day. It never had for me. We sat in silence. The sun inched closer to horizon.

“Do you like it out here?” Allen asked.

“I do. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Even if your boat smells like fish.”

He chuckled. “I don’t see this as a problem.”

We sat there for another ten minutes, then it was time for me to go before the sun set completely. The engine started without complaint this time, and Allen steered us toward the bridge. When I stepped out onto the dock, I reached for my wallet.

Allen waved me off.

“Put that away.” His voice was strict but warm. “You were a good company. That’s enough.”

I stood there, money in hand, something tight in my throat.

“Thank you. I mean it.”

“You ever come back to the city, stop by Fisher’s. I’ll get you a good meal.”

“I will.”

I watched him drift away, knowing I’d never see him again. It felt strange.

This bridge was considered one of the most beautiful things in the city, even though it sat on the outskirts. Tourists came here sometimes, but not many. An old-stone structure with Renaissance arches apparently wasn’t trendy anymore. The sun was almost down as I watched its final light pour over the water, warm and thick, turning everything amber. An elderly couple passed me , walking slowly, holding hands. They moved like young lovers, even though they’d probably been holding those same hands for decades. I looked down at the water. Would this height be enough? I rested my arms on the cold stone railing. The current rushed below, pulling toward the city. Even if it didn’t kill me, the fall would surely knock me out. Then I’d drown. I felt ready. I should feel ready. But I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there. Time seemed to drag. I turned my back to the water and looked at the other side of the bridge. Maybe running and jumping would be better than a static drop. Make it quick. A wet nose touched my hand. I looked down. A dog. A floppy-eared stray. Its tail wiggled.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” A man hurried over, slightly out of breath, “I just got her out of the animal shelter. She’s friendly, I promise.”

I looked at the dog.

“I don’t like dogs,” I said.

The man blinked, caught off guard, “Oh. Sorry, I’ll–”

“It’s fine.”

The dog kept trying to reach me. I crouched down. Her fur was soft, much warmer than I expected. She leaned into my hand, almost jumping into my arms.

“But this one’s actually nice.”

The owner smiled, relieved. “Right? She’s a sweetheart.”

“You’re a good girl.” The dog licked my hands, bumping her head against my palm.

After a moment, the owner tugged gently on the leash. She hesitated for a moment, but then followed. I watched them walk away. I was alone again. This was it. The sun was almost gone, leaving its last dark gold trails on the water, as the sky was deepening to blue-black.

I thought about Alisha. About Allen. About the girl in the park.

I’ve done so much today. A smile appeared on my face — a small one, barely noticeable from a distance, but one that made me feel something I hadn’t felt in years. Satisfaction. I’ve just had my first and only perfect day. I stepped closer to the railing. The stone was cold under my hands.

I took a breath.