The Parisian sky yawned above, a vast canvas of indigo dotted with stars that seemed to throb with secrets. I stood at the edge of the rooftop terrace, a glass of red wine cradled in my hand, the city sprawled below, set against an endless tapestry I feared I might wake from. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the night, its lights twinkling conspiratorially at our presence. Beside me, Alex leaned against the railing, his own glass catching the light of the lanterns straining across the open expanse, his guitar leaning carelessly against one of the wicker chairs scattered about. "Worth the climb?" he asked, his voice warm and teasing. I laughed, light in a way I had forgotten. "Absolutely. This view… nothing short of surreal." He grinned, raising his glass to his lips. "See what I mean? Nothing like a Parisian rooftop post nightfall." The discovery was an accident; a small hotel near our apartment with a terrace open to guests daring to negotiate the narrow staircase. It was peaceful up here – only the sound of the two of us and the gentle doll of the wind, the whispers of the city barely masking the noise. The scent of jasmine and ink swirled around us, and for a moment I could forget the ache in my chest, the shadow attached to me like a perverse echo. I placed my glass on the ledge, my clumsy fingers shaking as I reached up to tuck my scarf along my cheeks. The cough had been worse today, a persistent pressure that didn't seem to loosen, and when I reached the summit I found myself gasping for air. I blamed the excitement, grinning uncontrollably as Alex's apprehensive eyes grazed over mine. But in truth I knew the score – my body was slipping, and neither dreams nor Paris would fix it.
"It's quiet tonight," Alex remarked, his eyes examining mine. "You're good?" I said, forcing a smile and nod. "I'm good. It's Paris. It's like… the city of possibilities." He took a step closer, and his shoulder touched mine. "And that's what draws you here. So, what's next on the table? You've painted along the Seine, jotted stuff in the Tuileries… so what's the big dream?" For a minute, I was silent. I'd never told anyone my bucket list, not even Lila. She was too young. It was too personal, a list of dreams I jotted down in the stillness of night when the crickets were deafening and thoughts were overpowering. But Alex's eyes are kind and trusting in a way I've never seen before, and my heart craves to show him the person who drafted those dreams, even a tiny bit. "Alright," I replied, trying to sound confident but failing. "Can you promise you won't laugh?" "Cross my heart." He promised, in a tone that was serious yet heartwarming. I gazed at the city in front of me, my hands gripped firmly on the railings. "I want to see the northern lights. Or dance at a jazz club in New Orleans. Or climb a mountain. Just… live, you know? Leave a mark, maybe an artwork or a tale people would remember. Something that screams that I was here…" My voice trailed off, my lips tightening into a line. But Alex was gazing at me with adoring eyes… "That's beautiful, Emma," he said. "And you are doing it. Your art, it's your mark." "It's not enough," I retorted, my voice barely audible. "Not yet." He put his glass down and turned entirely to face me. "Then we'll make it enough. We'll do it all. Northern lights, jazz, climbing, anything."
His words were soothing, and I wanted to believe him, imagining a life where we did those things. But sitting there, the truth was suffocating and so cold inside my chest, I could no longer ignore; "Alex, I—" I started, but a coughing fit cut me off abruptly. I turned my head as I reached for my scarf but it was no use this time. It was in waves, making me lose my breath as a warm and a metal-iron taste filled my mouth. I felt my eyes and frantically wiped the blood away. I was terrified of what I was becoming. I stepped back and swallowed back the bile forming at the back of my throat. My fingers fumbled over my scarf, hiding my hand. Alex was by my side in an instant, his voice tainted with fear, "Emma, what's wrong? Talk to me." "I'm fine," I forced through gritted teeth, pressing the smile to my face, "I just…choked. My wine— I'm fine." My body weakened, but I forced the blood away from my scarf and wiped my lips. I could feel the tears welling up and hated myself even more. This was getting worse—the signs were clearer. I could hear Dr. Carter – limited time, make your arrangements – in my ear, and I feel the start of tears coat my eyes. "Are you sure? Emma, that didn't sound like—" "It's nothing," I insisted, brushing more of the blood from my lips, "I swear. I just need a…second." I turned to the railing and inspected my scarf further; Alex was at my back but at a respectable distance. "Emma, it's cold, and if you're feeling off, we can go back," he said, and I wanted to sob. I shook my head, "'m fine, Alex. Truly. I just… I want this."
He hesitated, and nodded, then stepped back to give me space. "Alright. But you tell me if you need anything, alright?" "I will," I assured him, though I knew I wouldn't. I couldn't let him help me with this––not yet, not when we were on a rooftop in Paris, our dreams so close we could almost catch them. After a while, we both stayed silent, drinking our wine away, watching the city shimmer underneath us. Alex picked up his guitar and started playing a soft tune. The music made my body relax, and I let it seep inside me to cherish everything about that moment. Even so, my hand remained inside my scarf, covering the blood, hiding the truth. "Emma," he began talking after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to face it––whatever it is––all by yourself. I'm here." I looked at him, feeling a puddle of tears forming in my eyes. He meant it––I saw his eyes, felt the warmth in his voice, the way he leaned towards me, as if to grab the weight off my shoulders. I couldn't place it there now. "I know," replied, my voice almost inaudible. "Thank you." And he nodded as we turned back to the city, the stars above us shining bright. I would cherish this moment––the rooftop, the wine the dream we shared. But the clock was ticking, and it would catch up to me sooner or later.