The Ledge

Someone was on the fire escape

at six in the morning,

just sitting there,

not doing anything,

just existing in that metal cage

between the building and the air,

and you couldn't look away.

Their silhouette against the gray,

the rusted grating beneath them,

the way they weren't moving,

weren't smoking,

weren't on their phone,

just sitting,

just watching the city wake up

without them.

The noise from the street

was muffled down here,

your apartment dark,

and you were in your kitchen

with your coffee

getting cold

because you couldn't stop

looking at them,

at this stranger

who had no idea

you were watching,

who had no idea

that someone was documenting

this small moment

of their stillness.

You wanted to know

what they were thinking about.

You wanted to know

why the fire escape,

why so early,

why so still.

You wanted to know

if they were okay,

if they were broken,

if they were just

taking a break

from being inside.

The city woke up around them.

The noise came back.

The gray sky started to lighten.

And they didn't move,

didn't seem to notice,

were somewhere else

in their own head,

the way you are

right now,

watching them,

trying to solve them,

trying to understand

what it means

to just sit

on a fire escape

at six in the morning

and do absolutely nothing.

When they finally stood up

and went back inside,

you felt something leave the room.

The apartment got smaller.

The morning got ordinary.

And you were left with

just your cold coffee

and the memory

of a stranger

who was still there,

still sitting,

still completely alone,

just like you.