The rain was coming down in buckets, the kind that stings your face and turns everything into a blurry mess. Akira wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but it didn't help—snot mixed with rainwater, and he sniffed loud, hating how it echoed in his head. His sneakers were soaked through, one lace undone and dragging in the mud like it was trying to trip him.
"Why me?" he muttered, voice cracking halfway through. The wind snatched it away anyway. "What the hell did I even do?"
He was up on that stupid cliff overlook, the one kids dared each other to bike to back in middle school. His legs shook from the cold, or maybe from standing there too long. The hoodie—gray, thrift store find with a hole in the pocket—stuck to his skin like glue. He could've zipped it up, but whatever. Numb was better than feeling the chill crawl in.
A flash of lightning lit everything up for a second. There he was: seventeen, skinny as a rake, black hair plastered flat, staring down at the scatter of lights that used to be home. Mom's apartment block on the left, the convenience store where he bought Pocky after school. Now it all looked tiny, fake, like a model someone kicked over.
"They didn't give a shit," he said to no one, throat raw. "Not when I came home with a split lip. Not when I stopped eating for a week."
He dug his nails into his palms. Hurt, yeah, but it was his hurt. Real. Better than the nothing that had been building inside for months.
The storm was loud, but that voice in his head was louder. Kaito's voice, always Kaito, with his dumb smirk and the way he leaned in too close.
"Jump already, Akira. Who's gonna miss a weirdo like you?" It played on loop, from that day behind the gym. "Survive the fall, and maybe we'll lay off. Chicken out, and you're done anyway."
Akira snorted, a wet, ugly sound. "Survive? Yeah, right. From up here?" He peeked over the edge. Rocks down there, sharp-ish, but mostly just wet and mossy. A rusty beer can glinted in the lightning. "You just want me gone. Fine. Maybe you're onto something."
His hands balled up tighter. Knuckles probably white, but he couldn't tell in the dark. One step. That's all. No more getting cornered in the halls, no more "draw this, freak" while they laughed and shoved his sketchbook in the toilet. No more lying awake at 3 a.m., phone glowing with ignored messages, wondering if anyone would notice if he vanished.
"At least it'd stop," he whispered. "At least... yeah."
Tears came then, hot for a second before the rain cooled them. He swayed—wind pushing, or maybe his knees giving out. For a blink, it felt lighter. Like, screw it, this is mine to end.
He breathed in, shaky. Let go of the edge he'd been gripping. Foot slipped on a loose rock. He lurched forward, arms pinwheeling like an idiot in a cartoon. The hoodie rode up, cold air hitting his stomach. *Wait, no—*
Falling. Fast. Wind screaming past his ears. He clipped a bush or something—thorns raking his arm. His phone slipped from his pocket, tumbling away with a faint buzz. Probably Dad's old text: "Call your mother."
*This is it.* No big drama. Just *ow, shit, this hurts already.*
Eyes squeezed shut. Rain still pelting. Then—smash. Shoulder hit first, a crunch that lit up his whole side. Head bounced off something hard. Breath gone. Blood in his mouth, metallic and warm. Legs twisted wrong. He tried to move a finger—nothing.
Pain faded quick, weirdly. Cold creeping in. A buzz in his ears, like static from a broken radio. Whisper? Maybe. Couldn't tell.
Everything quiet. No storm. No nothing.
Then a thump. Low, deep, like a bass drop from far away. Another. Pulsing. Alive?